


Subverted Ambitions

by notboldly



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Cold War, F/M, M/M, Pre-Reform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:05:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notboldly/pseuds/notboldly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After trying to achieve peace for over a century, Vulcans and humans decide to hold a series of arranged marriages. As an ambitious young captain, James Kirk agrees to the merger…only to find that his ambitions soon change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Jim had saved the universe from that crazy Romulan, for some reason he hadn’t expected “the universe” to include Vulcans. At the time, he hadn’t been terribly concerned about it. Jim was young, as young as some of the newest recruits, but he’d paid his dues while still in that same youth, becoming part of the Terran Military organization known as Starfleet almost as soon as he could walk (or at least that’s what it felt like.) He’d accepted every crummy job they gave him from spying to sabotage, and he’d gradually worked himself up to border control, until he was finally given charge of one of the elite, seventy-person ships that kept the very devil at bay. He’d earned it through hard work and guts and sheer persistence ( _stupidity_ , some people would say) and it was his, more his than any piece of land he’d ever stood on. When that ship that looked like some sort of deformed black pinecone came shooting through space towards who knows where, what was he supposed to think? He was border control, and although his job description was technically more along the lines of “border control  _against Vulcan invasion,_ ” a threat was a threat no matter the source. If he had needed any justification for his instant reaction of giving chase, the scattered remains of his friend Tracey’s ship had been enough: that massive vessel had weapons, lots of them, and they weren’t being very particular about who they used them on.

And his tiny ship was all that stood between them and innocent people on possibly thousands of planets. His tiny ship that was overlooked because it wasn’t a danger, wasn’t anything at all to something that—according to his over-excitable science officer—was as large as one of Jupiter's moons.

It was only by pure luck that Jim made it inside. Somehow their shields had been down and his genius head engineer had been able to whip something up, a tiny fragment of extra material that was easy enough to place and that definitely didn’t belong in their engines, and the rest had been history. Or future. Whatever. The problem came when everything was said and done and that horrible failure of engineering that was the Romulan mining vessel was only bits and pieces sucked into a black hole. The problem being that Jim had, unknowingly, followed the ship into Vulcan space.

The Vulcans were not happy. And that, in the end, led him to the worst place he could ever imagine.

Admiral Pike’s office.

********

Pike was something like a second father to him, if a father was someone who kicked you in the ass when you were being bad and promoted you when you were being good—he wasn’t sure, not having had much experience with fathers himself. But as this father figure that Jim was pretty sure he was, his opinion mattered more than a little to a twenty-something captain trying to make him proud. Unfortunately, Pike was also almost impossible to impress, so usually Jim just settled for not pissing him off. Most of the time, he succeeded.

This was not one of those times, as evidenced by the scowl that appeared on Pike’s handsome and well-lined face the moment Jim walked through the door.

“Jim.  _What_ did you  _do_?”

Jim didn’t think “save the universe, duh” was the right answer, and so he stayed silent. Mostly.

“I swear, Pike, it wasn’t my fault! There was a ship—”

“I know.” Pike’s scowl disappeared, to be replaced with a resigned, tired expression that he attempted to wipe away with one hand.

“Jim, we received a transmission from the Vulcan High Council this morning.”

Jim blanched; he couldn’t help it, and he knew it,  _he just knew it._  Bastards.

“Did they declare war?” And to think, he had saved their sorry hides. Now the open conflict they had been trying to prevent for years— _striving_  to prevent with everything they had—was finally happening. Must have been happening.

But Pike just shook his head, and Jim was confused.

“No. They want to form an alliance.”

Jim gaped. It was undignified and it didn’t match the captain-face he tried to wear during these sorts of talks, but he couldn’t help it.

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. But sure as hell, it’s here.” Pike turned the flickering screen of his computer towards him, and Jim saw small, even columns of complicated lettering. He sighed.

“Pike, I don’t read Vulcan.”

“It’s classified, anyway.” The screen was turned away, and Pike tapped his fingers furiously on his desk. His scowl was fiercer than ever at what should have been good news, and Jim felt the residual traces of nerves whip themselves into a frenzy in his stomach.

“There’s something else, isn’t there? It’s not a normal alliance.” With Vulcans, nothing was ever  _normal_.

“Yes. What they’re proposing is, er, archaic. We haven’t done it on Earth for a good thousand years or so.”

“What?”

“Arranged marriages.”

Jim sat in the nearest chair, heavily. Not because he was surprised—rather the opposite.

“You’ve  _got_  to be kidding me. That’s never worked! Like, never!”

Jim might not have been as entrenched in academia as some of the people his age ( _useless people_ , his mind insisted) but he knew his history, and most every country on Earth had a long history of those things not working out. It was nuts.

Pike gave him a look that said he agreed.

“Apparently the Vulcans have had more luck with it. They have the idea that they can form these “unions,” give a few humans an eventual seat on their council, take a few seats on ours, and everything will be hunky-dory.”

The idea was simplistic, too simplistic. Considering the Vulcans had been making things needlessly complicated for years, making negotiations difficult and impossible and dangerous, a few marriages shouldn’t have made a difference.

The stranger thing, though, was that Starfleet had apparently  _agreed_  to it.

“There’s got to be more to it than that. There has to be.”

“There is. One of the main things being this.”

Pike tapped a small device on his desk, and rapidly blinking lights emerged, forming a hologram in an impressive four colors. The rotating angle made it clear that the image was an object, well-designed and no doubt on the way to construction.

“Is that a ship?”

The ship shimmered tantalizingly for a moment longer, and then Pike switched it off. Curiously, the heavy disk was then handed to Jim.

“Yes. It’s a prototype we’ve been working on for the past eight or nine years. We haven’t had the resources to construct them, not with a large portion of our fleet on border control constantly. But if we ally with the Vulcans…”

Jim felt the weight of the idea in his palm, remembered the holograph clearly, and he swallowed.

“You can make these ships? How many?”

“We have eight planned, maybe more. But Jim, they need captains.”

Jim caught his breath, and he turned the holograph on again, setting it carefully on the edge of the desk. He could see the outline of the saucer section, the forward nacelles three times larger than those in his tiny ship, the body that could hold a crew of dozens, maybe even hundreds.

“Are you offering me a ship?”

“You’re first up, Jim. But…there are some conditions.”

It all made sense, and the holograph ended suddenly, like so many of his dreams. This time, however, Jim refused to just let it escape.

“I’m going to be in one of these marriages, right? To get that ship?”

“That was the plan. You can say “no,” of course; eventually you’ll come up for one of the later ships, but the first five are for the officers who agree to be part of this merger.”

Jim knew why Pike offered the out: he thought Jim was still bitter about his father dying in the latest Vulcan skirmish. While that was true, he was also ambitious, and the stars called to him.

“And how long a wait would it be if I refuse? Years? Decades? I can’t wait that long, Pike.”

Space was the only place he really felt welcome, his only home, and Pike knew it. Pike  _knew_  it, and he was manipulating him, because those marriages—that alliance—needed volunteers too.

“I know. I’m sorry, Jim.” Pike’s eyes were sad as he stretched out a hand, ready to accept the device again, ready for Jim to walk out of his office without a backward glance. Jim was glad he gave him the choice, even if it was no choice at all.

He kept the projector, sliding it smoothly into his jacket; he would look at it any time he doubted the decision he was about to make.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

Pike looked surprised, but he pulled his hand back.

“Jim, there are more conditions—”

“What? Do I have to love her? Treat her well? Stay faithful? I never expected to get married, Pike,” he warned, feeling like Pike had to know about Jim’s wandering heart. At least this way he’d get a few children out of the deal, maybe even to follow in his footsteps when he was old and gray.

Pike crushed those dreams too.

“It isn’t a ‘she.’”

Jim wasn’t as confused as he should have been, but he was angry. Very, very angry.

“A man? I’m marrying a  _man_?”

“Well, no. Technically you’re marrying a male Vulcan.” Pike held up his hands in defense when Jim glared at him. “What can I say, Jim? They didn’t want any children from the situation, no babies having to pick a side if it all ended badly. The only way they could be sure is if the parts didn’t mesh.”

“You expect me— _me!_ —to spend the rest of my life with a  _man_? Pike, I  _love_  women—there isn’t a man on Earth who could ever be enough.” Jim may not have had the most discriminate of tastes, but he knew his weaknesses: a beautiful woman could bring him to his knees, but a beautiful man could maybe only attract his attention, and only for a little while.

Pike just sighed.

“Fortunately your husband is on Vulcan…and no one said you had to be faithful. Ideally you  _should_  be faithful, of course, but if you must pursue any  _extra-curricular activities_ —”

Jim grinned; even in the current situation, he couldn’t help it.

“—then just make sure you don’t have any brats running around, okay? Be discreet.”

“Hey, “discreet” is my middle name.”

Pike looked at him without amusement.

“I thought your middle name was “Tomcat,” Jim.”

“That too.”

Pike shook his head, and Jim sobered. All joking aside, Pike did have a point.

 _Keep it in your pants, Jimmy T. Just for a little while_.

Pike echoed the thought, more or less, and almost to himself.

“I hope you don’t screw this up, Jim.”

Jim didn’t respond, because he knew that “me, too” wasn’t the right answer.

********

It was weird being in a shuttle bound for Vulcan, their not-so-distant enemy, and it was weirder still that he was riding Federation first-class. The seats were comfy (a rarity in military travel), the provided food was delicious, the company pleasant enough…but none of it helped. Jim sat straight and tense on those soft seats. The food sat like a two-ton spaceship in his stomach. As for the company…well.

“What the hell is this? We’re flying into a possible  _trap_  with a bunch of green-blooded  _demons_ , and they think it’s best if we do it in a tuna can?”

Jim laughed dryly and took a sip of his complimentary gin and tonic, the last he’d have for at least a year because _Vulcans_  didn’t drink alcohol.

“ _Bones_. You didn’t have to come.”

His friend—his oldest friend—just scowled from the seat next to him.

“And leave you in the hands of  _Vulcan_  medics? They said you could bring your own doctor, so here I am.”

Jim smiled, the expression fond and somewhat exasperated. He wondered if it was a big, cosmic joke—flying off to marry a man he didn’t know when his best friend was right beside him.

“For a year. Maybe longer, if they insist on it. On Vulcan.” And Bones hated the desert, hated the dry heat, hated everything about it even without the presence of stiff, uncompromising,  _cold_  Vulcans. Jim, however, couldn’t have been happier to have him along… even if he knew Bones’ motives were less than selfless.

Bones looked expectedly somber as he stared out the window, seemingly not bothered by the vastness of space despite his complaints.

“No one will miss me at home, Jim.”

Jim thought about saying “your daughter will,” but he didn’t. It would only open up a whole big set of issues that he knew his friend wanted to avoid with this extended leave, and so he didn’t say anything. But he thought it.

Bones’ single person (two, maybe, on a good day and when Jocelyn wasn’t threatening divorce) was still more than the zero he had waiting for him, even if Pike didn’t exactly hate him and some of his friends weren’t exactly impartial either.

“Jim! Hey, Jimmy!”

Jim scowled, remembering the  _rest_  of the company. Starfleet had needed five volunteers, and—somewhat surprisingly—they’d gotten them almost as soon as the news was out, an astonishing number of people willing to line up and marry the mysterious five Vulcans who’d also (supposedly) volunteered.

The first one (after Jim, of course) had been a surprise—Lieutenant Kyle wasn’t exactly the most sensitive man or the most forgiving, and his family had been killed in one of the earlier attacks before tentative peace was declared…but he was ambitious, and a jump in rank and a ship waiting for him had to make any grudge seem a bit smaller. The second and the third volunteers were a bit less out of left field, similar to Jim—Captain Wesley was a leader in his own right who just wanted a little bit more, and Dalton Archer was the most recent in a long line of men in his family who explored space. All three of them were good men in their hearts, no doubt would make decent husbands over time, and—if they had been the only other volunteers—Jim would have considered being stuck with them and their doctors okay. Not ideal, but okay.

But the fifth “Unifier” was Sean Finnegan, and Jim couldn’t think of a person he’d  _less_  like to spend a year with. He was almost sorry for the Vulcan Finnegan ended up with, actually, and that was saying something. Saying a lot.

“Jim, stop staring into space and come talk to me! Don’t you want to be friends?”

Finnegan was also inexplicably cheerful, although hell if Jim knew why. He closed his eyes, afraid that if he didn’t he’d glare at his amused friend beside him. Bones didn’t like Finnegan much either, but if there was one thing Bones did like, it was making Jim feel painfully embarrassed.

Sadist.

“Finnegan, I’m try to sleep, alright?”

In response, Finnegan plopped into the empty seat at Jim’s side. Jim had no choice but to stare at his unwelcome companion in resignation, noting with some amusement that Bones immediately feigned sleep himself.

“Ah, come on. Don’t you even want to talk about it,  _Captain_  Jim? I mean, this is your future  _husband_  we’re talking about _._ ”

Finnegan cackled and gestured with his own glass, nearly knocking over the last dregs of Jim’s drink.

“ _Finny_ , you’re getting married too.” Then, catching a whiff of strong scotch, he added cheerfully: “And you’ll be living on Vulcan for a year, with no alcohol.”

Finnegan just shrugged, the gesture surprisingly non-threatening despite the wide stretch of his heavily muscled shoulders.

“Who cares? I’m charming, Jim—I’m sure I’ll get the best-looking one. Hell, maybe they’ll even be  _young_. What do you think? Will you get an ugly one? You are a troublemaker, after all. Not respectable.”

Finnegan seemed to have forgotten who exactly had saved the damn universe, but Jim didn’t argue with him. Didn’t bother.

“Finnegan, I don’t give a damn who I end up with. Vulcans are all the same, right?”

Finnegan laughingly agreed, and Jim was surprised to find that he actually meant it himself.

 _Vulcans are all the same…_ It said a depressing amount about his future, actually, that the details of his marriage meant so little to him; Jim tried not to think about it as he spent the rest of the ride deliberately ignoring Finnegan.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim had half expected to be greeted with spears and phasers when they landed at the agreed upon location outside the capital city of Shi’Kahr, their small, defenseless shuttle disappearing like so much red dust in the Vulcan winds. It didn’t happen, not exactly; they were indeed met by phasers, but they were also met by three very official looking older men in long white robes with crusty golden decorative embroidery and extremely complicated, extremely gray braids down to their waists. Ambassadors, Jim guessed—he couldn’t be sure, but the guards looked remarkably suspicious for their cool-faced species, and so he assumed they were important, possibly even vital. If they hadn’t been attempting this shot at peace, Jim would have considered it worthwhile to stage an attack on whoever they were…if they weren’t at  _peace._  But since they were, he made certain to be on his best behavior, nodding and smiling wide enough that it was probably offensive as he stepped off the shuttle.

Finnegan, thankfully, had the good sense to keep his mouth shut, and the better sense to push Jim to the front of the crowd. Bones, loyal friend that he was, came and stood by his side.

“Hello. I’m Jim Kirk, and this is Doctor McCoy. Who am I speaking to?”

The three Vulcans shared a glance that Jim was unable to interpret, and then the tallest one with the snow gray high braid moved forward smoothly.

“I am Semek.” His voice was curt and lightly accented, like all Vulcans when they attempted to speak English Standard. “For your intermediate stay, I will be your host. My associates are Healer Silen and Ambassador Saele, and they will be in charge of the functions you are to attend and your general health. Please follow me.”

“Whoa, whoa, one second, champ.” The Vulcan looked at him, and Jim automatically corrected himself with a deliberate smile. “I mean, Semek. What functions? When are the, er, weddings?”

In keeping with the few interactions Jim had had with Vulcans up to that point, Semek looked at him like he was a fool, and answered like the conversation left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Bonding ceremonies will take place approximately three months from now, in the second dry season. Naturally, there will be events and studies conducted to determine the most compatible matches between the Human and Vulcan Unifiers, as well as meetings between our respective administrations to finalize the details.”

The dark-haired man to Jim’s side started and raised his hand, his darkly freckled face looking more than a little pinched.

“Most compatible? I was under the impression that the marriages didn’t need to serve as anything except a symbol.” The Vulcans stared, and he added with an embarrassed cough: “I’m Dalton Archer, by the way.”

“These marriages are mostly symbolic, yes. However, each of you will one day reside on the Vulcan High Council, making up one-third of our deciding officials, another third being occupied by your spouses. In the event of…emotional conflict, we would prefer our system was not corrupted.”

Jim smiled reflexively as he translated.

“You don’t want us having a spat, and making the rulings unfair?”

The two Vulcans silently standing in the background looked at him with obvious disdain at his word choice, but Semek—to his credit—seemed unfazed.

“Correct. May we proceed?” He waited for confirming nods and mumbles before he began to walk forward, expecting no doubt that he would be followed by the herd of ten unarmed humans. Jim noticed that the guards still kept a close eye on all of them as they moved forward, and that their weapons—now holstered—were also still clearly visible and accessible. He couldn’t say he blamed them, and he watched the small group of Vulcan servants unload their meager luggage with a similar watchful eye, half-expecting to find a poisonous reptile in his bag when he unpacked that night.

“Along with functions intending to encourage mixing of our two species, each Unifier will have a monitored interview with each of their potential counterparts, and the best matches will be determined accordingly. You will have an opportunity to state your preferences prior to the final deliberation.” Semek waited again for their agreement, and they gave it reluctantly.

Call him foolish, but Jim hadn’t anticipated it would be this  _complicated_ ; he’d honestly expected to be married right out of the shuttle, although he didn’t know why. Vulcans, after all, were extremely rational. Cold, devious, dislikable, but still highly  _rational_.

They were also highly restrictive, as evidenced by the regulations they were careful to place before they had so much as reached their secondary transport.

“During your intermediate stay, you will not approach any of the elders present, nor will you show disrespect to them or their families. You are not to enter the home of another Vulcan without express permission, and you are to avoid conflict through any possible means. You are not allowed to import chocolate—”

“Wait, what? Why not?”

Jim’s outburst was more or less ignored.

“That information is classified. May I continue?”

Everyone nodded, Jim at least just curious as to what other frankly  _absurd_  restrictions they’d be living under for the next three months and beyond.

“All other foods you would wish to import must be non-hazardous, and approved by myself or other scientific personnel; this logic also applies to plants, animals, and synthetic compounds. Your belongings will be scanned for any such items, and you will be notified accordingly.”

“You’re making an awful lot of rules,” Robert Wesley murmured, his calm attitude seeming at odds with the tension in those surrounding him. “I don’t suppose we’re allowed to make any?”

“You are allowed, within reason.”

“Thank you. You are not allowed to monitor us without our permission, in any way.”

Semek looked startled for a brief moment, as if he hadn’t expected them to have conditions in mind—tough luck. They were the brightest and best in the fleet, good officers and stubborn to boot; as a group, it was difficult to catch them off-guard, and one-on-one, it was nearly as hard.

“You are not allowed to interfere with what we do outside the functions you’ve arranged, given that we’re not breaking any of your rules,” Archer contributed with a smile, receiving a pat on the back from Wesley.

“You aren’t allowed to decide what we can and can’t eat or drink at these functions,” Finnegan added, his tone almost gleeful, and Jim knew why—for once, he agreed with him.

“You aren’t allowed to restrict any of our  _friendships_ , either.” Jim was careful not to explain what he meant by friendships, but by the look Bones shot him and the strained chuckle from the other doctors (no doubt aware of Jim’s promiscuity, because Bones was a gossiping dick), he was understood by the most important members of the group.

The vaguely confused and irritated look on Semek’s face was just the cantaloupe on top of an already delicious sundae (what? Jim had strange tastes.)

“You are not required to state your provisions at this time,” he said into the temporary silence, looking pained. “Shall we?” He gestured at the long, sleek transport shuttle just yards in front of them; as if on cue, the doors lifted to reveal the inside of a craft far-more luxurious than even Starfleet’s best. The Vulcans had wealth, to be sure, but the use of it to host their tentative peace gathering rankled more than a little. Like they were rubbing it in. Like the devils were _mocking_  them.

It was no surprise that the ride to the bustling city of Shi’Kahr was filled with nearly hostile silence, or that the glances that passed between the two species were fraught with distrust, doubt, and—at least on the human side—anger.

Ten years they had been working to get to this point, longer even than that to be able to share space with a species so different, and  _this_ —this uncomfortable ride to this unwanted city holding a miserable future—was the result. Jim didn’t know whether to laugh or punch something, and he thought he might do both, if only to shock the sensibilities out of his  _host_. Thankfully the ride was short—only five minutes to reach the city limit and seven more to reach their destination—and they had disembarked before he could lose his mind and do either. And once they had exited their cushy cruise liner craft, the sight of the city itself erased any thought of being rude and obnoxious from his mind.

Whatever else the Vulcans were, they clearly knew how to treat their planet well, and the city—large, and approximately three times the size of Earth’s largest international city—was composed of clean lines and unblemished streets, the tall buildings made of sandstone in a wide range of browns and whites, the sky impossibly blue and the air impossibly clear. There was no sign of the smog that tainted Earth’s more industrial countries even to this day, and were it not for the stifling heat and the weight of heavier gravity (and yes, of course, the Vulcans), Jim would have claimed it was paradise.

The illusion was shattered by the smug looks of their hosts, clearly knowing exactly what the sight of their city did to those from other planets, and Jim scowled on principle. Since the expression was closer to Vulcan normal than his smile, however, the three beings appeared not to notice his displeasure, and they led them to a wide building that was dark brown and crushed between two taller buildings, both of them a neutral shade of tan.

The dark brown building—mud brown, as his mind insisted on describing it—was apparently the Vulcan Embassy, and it was also the place that would be boarding them, free of charge, for the months preceding their marriages. Jim tried to look interested as they led them on the tour of the football-stadium sized building, showing them the ballroom that made up half of the first floor, the artfully arranged rock gardens off to each side, the large and impressive bedrooms on the floors above, the fully-staffed kitchen, the state of the art offices and laboratories and completely-operational sickbay. Jim tried to be interested but it was difficult, because once the shock of the Vulcan architecture had worn off, Jim was aware of two things. First, that he was surrounded by wealth, by power, by influence, in a way his small Iowa home town had never been.

And second…second, he was most likely in over his head.

********

After the rapid tour was finished and several more guidelines were laid out “for their benefit,” the human contingent was left more or less on their own, with the notable exception of assistants who actually  _unpacked_  their belongings with something resembling care. They were left alone but not in peace, since they were told—explicitly—that there was a gathering they were expected to attend in the large ballroom, a gathering that would also host all of the officials from both Vulcan and Earth that would be arriving later, a gathering that would also allow them to meet the Vulcan “Unifiers” for the first time.

Jim was nervous, more than he should have been, for reasons he couldn’t explain and about things that didn’t make sense.

“Bones, stop laughing!” Bones just laughed harder, collapsing on the firm mattress behind him and holding his gut. Jim regretted their room arrangement now, somewhat; at first he had thought it was convenient that one Unifier and their doctor each shared a single suite, but now he was starting to wonder. He would have to live with Bones, in all his hilarity, for  _three months._

Jim slapped him upside the head in response to the thought, and Bones simply rolled on his side, gasping.

“I’m sorry, Jim, but I can’t help it! You just asked me— _me_!—if I thought your gold shirt or your blue shirt made you look hotter! Not more formal, not more professional— _hotter_. Who the hell are you trying to impress?” His words were still littered with the occasional guffaw, and Jim scowled at him before he turned back to his (embarrassingly empty) closet.

“No one. But since I have to marry one of the five Vulcans skulking somewhere in that ballroom, I’d prefer it be the one who thinks I’m  _hot_.” He probably didn’t have his priorities in line, but Jim wanted at least  _some_  sex out of the deal before they each got bored and found other people to occupy their beds, because Vulcans were—well, not  _attractive_  per se, but they must have had appealing qualities. That strength. Those legs. Yes, there were some things that were appealing, and Jim was nothing if not adventurous.

Bones, if possible, just looked more amused.

“I hate to tell you this, Jim, but you’re not really what Vulcans consider attractive—those ice-pick thin brunets are.” He paused, and then added as an afterthought, “Dalton will probably do great, actually.”

“Bones, you’re  _not helping_.” Jim sighed, and on a whim, grabbed the blue shirt. If nothing else, it shimmered nicely and would stand out in a field of white and brown formal clothes, and if he couldn’t be the hottest person at the  _ball_ , he’d at least be the easiest one to find.

He had just barely shrugged it on and tugged his boots up to his knees when the comm unit on the bedroom desk buzzed alarmingly, and Jim darted towards it.

“Yes, what?” He snapped, expecting another one of the human Unifiers, or a Vulcan official, or even Pike telling him to hurry his ass up.

What he did not expect was Bones’ wife, looking pale and petite and somber.

“Hello, James.” It was a testament to how unfriendly they were that she never called him by his preferred name, not ever, and he never asked her to. “Is my husband there?”

Bones was already standing, and whatever amusement that had been there before was gone now, replaced with worry.

“Jocelyn. Is something wrong? Is Joanna okay?”

Jim left the room before the woman on the other end could answer, carefully closing the door with a click and sitting on the couch between the two rooms. Jocelyn was his friend’s Delilah in every sense of the word; Jim knew the conversation could not end well, because Bones loved her, but not enough to smooth five years worth of bumps out of their marriage.

When he emerged from Jim’s bedroom, Bones was pale and shaken, and Jim immediately leapt to his side to guide him to the nearest chair.

“Bones. Bones! What’s wrong?”

“Jocelyn…Jim, she wants a divorce. God, she finally wants a divorce.”

It had been a long time coming, and Jim wondered what reason she’d finally found. That Bones was staying on Vulcan? That she’d found someone else? That there wasn’t enough money? A combination of all three, probably, and Jim felt for him, more than anything, as he wrapped his arms around shaking shoulders.

 _This_  is what an initially happy marriage became, this is what was left. Was it any wonder that Jim wasn’t looking forward to it? At least he didn’t have to pretend to love the bastard, or even care.

“I’m sorry, Bones. I’m so sorry.”

They stayed that way in silence, Jim crouched and holding him and Bones leaning on him with all of his weight like the collapsed pillar of a man that he was. They stayed that way for minutes, for hours maybe, until Bones finally pulled away, his face red and puffy. He wiped his eyes ineffectively and managed a scowl, but without any heat to it.

“Jesus, Jim, you just let me cry all over you! I guess you do have to go with the gold shirt after all.”

“You think? And here I thought you weren’t listening to me.”

“I wasn’t.” Jim patted him on the cheek the way one would a stubborn child, and then went to change his shirt before Bones’ reflexive swat could hit him.

It was only afterward that he realized all the excitement had made them twenty minutes late.

********

If Jim had wanted to make a good impression on his future in-laws and associates, he was pretty sure he would have failed utterly with his out-of-breath burst through the closed doors to the ballroom, a half-dressed Bones on his heels. Thankfully, he hadn’t been planning on making friends and so the silence that followed his entrance was neither uncomfortable nor particularly noticed, not a hindrance in the least as he smiled warmly and straightened his clothes.

The Vulcans, once they recovered from the sight of a pink-flushed blond man in a gold shirt, resumed their interactions without a hitch, and Bones—like a true friend—seemed to have an improved mood at seeing Jim embarrass himself in front of everyone, including a particularly scandalized Semek.

Pike—who, like a true politician, had a tendency to show up when it was the most inconvenient—was less amused, and he jabbed him in the back. Hard.

“Damnit, Jim! Why do you have to be so difficult?”

“Difficult? I’m not difficult. I just had a, er, personal comm call to take care of. Honestly. You can check.”

Bones was about to open his mouth and Jim overtly shushed him, causing the scowl to slowly fade from Pike’s face.

“Well, at least it broke the ice a bit. Before you came in, the Vulcans and Humans weren’t talking at all. Now they’re at least united in their opinion of  _you_.”

Jim grinned, and Bones snorted something that sounded like “every damn time, kid.”

“Sweet. Anyone interesting here?”

Pike glanced at the sea of bodies behind him and Jim did the same. He wasn’t sure what Pike saw, but he winced when he saw the same almost-gaudy clothing, outrageously long and complicated hair styles, and air of indifference on each of them.

Seriously, he didn’t understand the hair.

“To me? Plenty of them are interesting, and negotiations are going along fine, thanks for asking. Sorry I missed your shuttle, by the way—Number One intercepted an emergency transmission, and we had to deal with it.” Jim nodded along with Pike’s explanation, hoping Number One wasn’t nearby, spreading (entirely true) rumors about him. He didn’t say that, though—Pike tended to get up in arms when she was questioned—and he simply waited.

Pike sighed, plainly exasperated.

 “You mean interesting to you?” Jim nodded, and Pike pointed to the center of the room, where Jim could just barely make out a raised platform with four Vulcans on it, surrounded by—yes, the human Unifiers.

“Four of the five Vulcan Unifiers are standing over there.”

“Four? Where’s the fifth?”

“He couldn’t make it, apparently.”

Jim was surprised. Weren’t Vulcans all about being punctual?

Pike saw his look and explained.

“He’s sick.”

“Oh.” Jim glanced back at the four Vulcans bunched together, and he considered going over to introduce himself and lay the first seeds of charm…and then he looked at Pike and realized, somewhat ruefully, that he’d rather hang with him and Bones, and safely complain. He just wasn’t up to politics, not then, and he wasn’t up to charm.

“So…they explain why they all look ridiculous?”

The joke fell flat, because  _Pike_  was apparently geared up for politics even if Jim wasn’t.

“Jim,  _be nice_. Or, if you’re not going to be nice, go and get some air or something.”

“Thank you. I will.”

Jim stormed off, leaving Pike’s surprised look and Bones’ open mouth gape behind him as he pushed through the fringes of the crowd. He had shown up, he had been there for under five minutes, and already he  _needed air_? This was not looking good.

What’s more, the situation was finally— _finally_ —starting to sink in. He was getting married, and Vulcans didn’t practice divorce. He was getting married, and he would never be allowed to have children. He was getting married, and the weight of a war was resting on his shoulders.

He was getting married, and he didn’t even  _know the man_.

Jim stomped along determinedly as the thoughts swam frantically through his mind, ignoring the occasional questioning glance that was sent his way. He moved in the muggy dark night, stopping occasionally at one of the many side gardens on the building only to find it occupied by ten or twenty Vulcans, and he couldn’t handle that. He needed space. He needed air. He needed to be  _alone_.

He had walked for probably fifteen minutes before he saw the garden on the outskirts of the perimeter, separated from the rest of the building and grounds by a short fence because, hey, it was part of the building next door. It was also tiny and unoccupied, and interesting in a way that the carefully modified gardens of the building next to it were not. Rather than being vigilantly maintained, it was patched with shriveled weeds that looked more like the work of a depraved artist than anything that actually existed in reality, and piles of rocks were scattered around the sparse plant life like the work of a child attempting to build mountains.

There was also a bench in the center of it all, one lone bench that was made of worn wood rather than glossy marble, and it rested on hammered peg legs instead of sturdy blocks. It called to him, and before Jim knew it, he had hurtled the half-fence in his way, walking quickly across the sand to sit carefully on one end of the dried planks. It creaked when he settled himself, and he sighed long and slow, staring up at the stars for what felt like hours.

He wouldn’t see those stars in person for over a year. His certainty faltered, and he sighed again, wishing his formal clothes had a pocket to spare for the small hologram, the image of his goal.

“My God, what am I doing here?”

“Is the view not to your liking?”

Jim stiffened reflexively; the voice was unfamiliar and it likely belonged to a Vulcan, but he was puzzled at the lack of even the faintest accent. Puzzled, and suspicious.

“Didn’t anybody ever teach you not to sneak up on people?”

Jim turned, and the dim light provided by the lit torches in the neighboring building was not enough to make out anything except the vaguest form of a tall man.

“I did not ‘sneak.’ I was merely curious as to who was occupying this garden, as it is strictly private grounds.”

Jim shrugged, feeling stiff in his formal clothes, but the admonishing tone neither caused him to move nor feel the slightest bit guilty.

“Sorry. I wanted some peace. Some quiet.”

“There are many other gardens to choose from.”

 _They were occupied_  wasn’t entirely true, Jim realized, since this one was now occupied as well and he hadn’t budged.

“I liked this one.” In all its unkempt glory, it was the closest place he had found to an Earth environment, even if it was still  _damn_   _hot_ , even at night. He didn’t expect a Vulcan to understand that, however, and so he was surprised when the shadowy form appeared to nod.

“I see. Then I ask you again, is the view not to your liking?”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Jim shrugged, wondering if the conversation was over now, if it was too illogical to continue, and then the man stepped into the faint red halo of light surrounding the bench.

“Forgive me. I had forgotten that humans have inferior night vision.”

Jim would have been insulted, but he barely heard the words. His Vulcan companion  _was_  tall, but also thin and long and with dark clothes that were thankfully less gaudy or decorated than the outfits he’d seen up to this point, and the imperfect face was stunning in its assortment of features. A sharp nose. Defined cheeks. Thin lips. Dark, dark eyes. Then to top it all off, there was  _that hair_. All the judgment he’d done suddenly seemed inappropriate, because the long, dark hair formed loose waves across his chest and back, no doubt the result of being removed from one of those bizarre braids—and they weren’t so ridiculous, really, if they left the dark curtain of strands looking so…well, touchable.

 _Well hello._  Jim repressed the urge to leer, a bit surprised at it, and he looked away.

“You may as well go hide in the dark again. I don’t care what you look like.”

_Liar liar, pants on fire…_

“I will do as I please, as this is my garden.”

Jim started, and it suddenly made sense; why his clothes were different, why his hair was down.

“You work here?”

The Vulcan shrugged as if the answer did not matter, the gesture surprisingly human as he moved forward a few more steps. It occurred to Jim that he was taking up almost the entire bench, and he scooted over reflexively.

“During some hours of the day, yes.”

“Huh.” The Vulcan sat next to him and Jim shifted, feeling like he was going to get heat stroke from the heat of his body. Jesus, was everything on Vulcan  _hot_?

Jim had to stop himself from giggling embarrassingly as the thought hit him, and he looked away again. He wondered if he was just that unlucky, that the first Vulcan he’d ever actually found  _attractive_  was some low-end worker or assistant, and the evidence seemed to support that yes, he was.

It made him inexplicably annoyed, actually, and he was able to turn back around with a scowl on his face.

“So, what now? You call some guards to throw me out?”

“That is not necessary, as I do not mind sharing.”

Jim snorted, and the annoyance in the sound wasn’t even faked. He was no fool, but apparently this Vulcan  _was_.

“Yeah? And where was that magnanimous ability to  _share_  when you attacked our colonies for being in  _your_  space? How about our space stations? Our  _moon_?”

The last was of particular importance to Jim; many good people had died in that damn battle that shouldn’t have happened, including his own father. The Vulcans claimed it had been a misunderstanding; Jim didn’t believe them, and even if he had long since lost the urge to make every single one of them  _pay_  thanks to Number One’s insistent therapy, the bitterness and loss still made it difficult to see Vulcans as anything except impotent, devilish  _liars_ , and he knew the resentment was showing in every line of his body just then.

Those eyes watched him impassively, but Jim could have sworn he saw them flash in the dim light. Impossible—Vulcans didn’t get annoyed, and certainly not at a pretty minor accounting of their sins.

“That was before my time and—as evidenced by your presence—we are attempting to change.”

Jim laughed, and he wondered if he looked as cruel as he sounded.

“ _Please_. A zebra can’t change its stripes and a Vulcan can’t change their attitude.”

“Indeed? You have known many Vulcans, then?”

The question was leading and Jim would have said it was even  _mocking_ , except Vulcans weren’t mocking—couldn’t be with that ice in their veins, and no sense of humor.

“Yeah,” Jim replied instantly, despite the fact that he had met only the occasional Vulcan ambassador, and only when he was escorting them to a peace conference that inevitably failed. “The lot of you are…are cold, and distrustful, and pompous.  _Passionless_ ,” Jim finished, the words a killing blow in his eyes, and the Vulcan stiffened.

“I regret to inform you, sir, that you are wrong on all counts.”

A long fingered hand snapped out to touch his face, and it had wrapped around his neck before Jim could even think _This is it_ , he thought, almost regretfully. _This is the end._

And then the hand shifted to cup his nape rather than squeeze the life out of him, and he was jerked forward. There was surprise, and then hot breath scorched his lips and chin, and his lips were crushed in a bruising kiss. His mouth was taken almost brutally, with teeth and tongue and soft suction on his bottom lip that was startling as it contradicted the aggressive way the kiss had begun.

It was  _perfect_ , and when the Vulcan ended the kiss calmly, Jim almost followed him. His lips still  _tingled_ , and they separated completely because Jim was two seconds away from ending up in his new  _friend’s_  lap, and because he knew how he looked with his lips swollen red, he grinned widely.

 _“Passionless” indeed._  Whatever else applied to other Vulcans,  _this_  one had passion enough for him…at least for one night.

“ _Holy cow._  Come to my room?” The question wasn’t as seductive as it normally would have been—more like pleading, really—because there were still Vulcan hands pressed against the base of his skull, and their heat was enough to steam the air.

“That would not be wise.”

Jim thought it would be worse if they decided to fuck right here, right now, but he didn’t say that as his hands wandered farther than they should have, across the slim back covered in black fabric. The thought of spending his first night in that fancy bed with someone who probably saw his future  _husband_  every day was excruciatingly appealing, and he felt himself swell inside pants that were already too tight. He imagined those hot lips wrapped around him, burning like the air around him, and he almost came from the thought alone.

Besides, he was about to be good for a year, or at least “discreet.” Didn’t he deserve one last fling? No one would know, but most importantly, there wouldn’t be any children, just like the Vulcans wanted.

“Wise schmise. I’m still a free man for a while yet, so unless you have other commitments—”

His Vulcan looked startled, and released him suddenly. The inches between them, the space where Jim couldn’t feel the body-warmed fabric anymore, were unwelcome.

“You are a Unifier? You are to be married?”

Jim shrugged like it was no big deal, because it wasn’t.

“Yeah, eventually. Problem?”  _Say no._   _Say you want to nail me into a mattress. Say you want to swallow me down with that beautiful mouth…_

The Vulcan, however, didn’t say anything; he merely looked…appalled, if only for a brief moment, and then he stood up and bowed.  _Bowed_.

“Please enjoy the rest of your evening, and excuse me.”

Before Jim could even mutter out an indignant “hey!” the tall form had disappeared back into the shadows, and the telltale sound of a door opening and closing meant he had also probably gone back inside, too. Back to whatever it was he was doing before he decided to argue with Jim and then kiss the fuck out of him.

The funny thing was, Jim didn’t even know his name…but, as per usual, his body didn’t seem to care.


	3. Chapter 3

Jim knew he looked dazed when he finally wandered back to the gathering—dazed and smug—and he knew it was especially bad when Bones appeared out of nowhere to drag him off to the side of the main crowd.

“What the hell, Jim? You’ve been gone for twenty minutes, your lip’s bleeding, and you look like you just found some hidden dessert stash.”

Jim grinned, the stretch causing the corner of his mouth to bleed more heavily against the fingers he hurriedly pressed to it, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

“Near enough, Bones. Near enough.”  _Dessert indeed…_ the days ahead of him were suddenly looking a whole lot brighter, because if there was  _one_  Vulcan who could do that to him, there was bound to be another, maybe even one with fewer morals. Maybe his bed wouldn’t be lonely after all.

Bones probably knew what he was thinking, judging by the hurried, frustrated push of his hand through his short hair.

“Jim, you better not have gotten frisky with an ambassador’s daughter, or so help me, I will kill you.”

Jim held up his hands defensively, knowing that Pike—wherever he had decided to stay in-between meetings with the Vulcans—would feel the same way.

“Honestly Bones—I was only gone for twenty minutes.”

Bones narrowed his eyes, his pupils darting quickly to Pike and his conversation partners and back. The warning was clear.

“Twenty minutes of ‘good time,’ by the looks of it.”

“It’s alright, really. I just sat in one the gardens and, er, had a bit of a stumble.”

Bones looked at him doubtfully.

“On your face?”

“Sure,” Jim agreed easily, before pointing abruptly to a nearby table. “Is that punch?”

Bones nodded slowly, looking amused.

“Sure. It’s made from  _sash-savas_ ; go try it.”

Jim did, getting a cup of the poison-apple red beverage and sipping cautiously. He nearly choked, and Bones wandered up leisurely to slap him on the back.

“What…the hell? This is the sourest thing I’ve ever tasted.” And it stung the cut on his lip painfully, diminishing his good humor somewhat.

“Didn’t I mention? That bowl is for Vulcans; this one is for humans.”

Bones finished by handing him a cup, and the sip that Jim slowly took revealed it to be a generic punch-flavor, pineapple and cherry. Jim glared at his friend over the rim of the white cup as he continued to drink.

“You’re evil” was all he said as he refilled the glass to the rim, wondering if his Vulcan  _friend_  liked that sour beverage, if he would appreciate it if Jim took him a glass, and then he remembered he had no idea where he had run off to.

Bones just slapped him on the back again.

“I am, but you love me. And besides, you shouldn’t lie to your old-timey doctor.”

Jim smirked to himself, slightly.

“Fine. I met a servant or something, and we talked and then tried to eat each other.”

Bones looked appalled, but not for the reasons Jim would have expected.

“ _You_? Talk with a  _Vulcan_?”

“Well…berate is more accurate.” He was smiling when he said it even though he was suddenly reminded of an old saying about “picking your battles.” It had never concerned him before, though, so why should he start now?

Oh yeah—because the fate of the universe was at stake.

Bones just looked…disappointed, and cautious.

“Be careful, Jim. You don’t want enemies, you hear? Not personal ones.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” And he really did. Enough that he swallowed his punch rather than offering reassurances, and that when the Ambassadors came over to greet him, he offered the  _ta’al_  without even trying to shake their hands.

********

As much as Jim would have liked for the rest of the evening to be eventful so that he could leave his brief dalliance with that Vulcan in a pit of memories, it wasn’t and he didn’t. By the time he’d made an appearance at his own party, the four Unifiers had disappeared; as Pike explained, the Vulcan volunteers were second sons or cousins of the ruling Vulcan class, which meant they had commitments of their own, but not too many. Pike said, almost laughingly, that it was to prevent humans from tampering with the Vulcan’s  _perfect_  system beyond what they could repair, and so those with the most power and influence—lords, ambassadors, and religious officials—were strictly off-limits. Jim would have been annoyed, but considering he’d set his lust lower—much lower—it didn’t bother him much, and he’d never been one for politics.

But it bothered Pike and it bothered Bones, and that meant he had to hear about it late into the night, long after the Vulcan gathering had ended…long after it had gone six a.m. ship time, just after two a.m. on the planet’s surface. It was exhausting, and eventually he gave up and threw a pillow at them both before burrowing his head under the blankets in the hopes that they would  _leave his bedroom._

It was one of the least restful nights of his life, and when he woke, his body was tense, primed for sex, and he knew he’d been dreaming about that damn Vulcan; he wasn’t in much of a condition for the brunch he was supposed to attend, and he knew it.

“Jim. Jim!”

Jim glared at the ceiling before slamming a pillow over his own face.

“What?” The response was muffled, and so he wasn’t surprised when Bones jerked the cushion from his hands. He  _was_ surprised by the headache hypo that was gently pressed into his neck, however, and he grudgingly admitted that Bones had redeemed himself somewhat. Slightly. Barely.

“Jim, if you don’t get your ass out of bed we’re going to be late. Again.”

“It’s your fault for  _keeping me up_. And where are we going, again?”

Bones threw a black shirt at him. It hit him in the face.

“A brunch with Semek and the Vulcan Unifiers. You know, the ones you didn’t meet last night? Now come on.” Bones, of course, was already dressed, with his best scowl and everything. For someone who probably wanted to be here less than Jim did, he was sure eager about being to these  _events_  on time.

Jim, in response, just groaned and pulled his shirt over his head, and half over his arms.

“I really think you’re enjoying this. The whole reluctantly-honored guest thing.”

Bones shot him a look that was half-smug, and entirely unsympathetic.

“Jim, I’m not the one getting married. Just think of it as your…wedding reception.”

“Where I finally get to meet the groom?”

Bones looked exasperated and Jim grinned into his own shoulder, because they both knew he was doing it on purpose. If nothing else, taking care of Jim and his inevitable nonsense kept Bone’s mind off of the family he was losing and the fact that he hated the desert, and it kept Jim from remembering what his own future held…but not for long. Eventually the jokes faded and they finished dressing in silence; thankfully, this time Jim remembered to bring his little hologram, and as they walked to the large dining room below their suite, the weight of it was a comfort.

His ship. His ship, and then he was out of here. His ship, and then whoever it was he was stuck with was on his own. The thoughts allowed him to force a smile as he pushed at the wide double doors, and to keep it when twenty pairs of eyes flicked his way.

“Good morning!” he announced cheerfully, and his greeting was met with a field of raised  _ta’al_ s and the standard Vulcan greeting. The other human Unifiers just looked and him and smiled wanly; no doubt they’d already been here for several minutes and—not buffered by the presence of a crowd this time—no doubt they’d already had their share of attention from Vulcans.

“Excuse me?”

Jim turned and was surprised to meet the eyes of a Vulcan a foot taller than he was. Seriously, the man was tall...but his braid (a normal, stiff Vulcan braid rather than softly flowing waves, his mind insisted on pointing out) was slightly crooked, and he was wearing glasses. Jim hadn’t seen anyone wear glasses since the last time he’d visited his grandfather.

“You are the fifth Unifier, correct? I am Vommeck.”

Jim nodded and smiled again, and McCoy was staring at them both. So was everyone else, actually.

“I’m, er, Jim. Captain Kirk.”

“An honor.” Then, with a short nod, Vommeck left. Jim stared after him.

“Was it something I said?”

“You must forgive Vommeck,” said a lightly amused voice to his side. “What he lacks in social skills, he more than makes up for with his scientific contributions.”

Jim turned, and…god dammit, were they  _all_  taller than him? This one, thankfully, by not more than a few inches, but his expression was smug, unreasonably so for a Vulcan, and his eyes were the same glittering black as every pair he’d ever seen. Unlike Vommeck, his braid was smooth and obscenely neat, and his outfit more decorated than the rest.

“And let me guess; you have social skills?”

This new Vulcan simply raised his hand in greeting a second time.

“Not really. However, I do have the good sense to remain for the entirety of the event, rather than leaving as soon as my task is completed. I am Tolkar.”

Jim made a harrumph noise in his throat, and behind him he just heard Bones sigh again and move past him, no doubt considering him a lost cause.

“Tolkar, Vommeck, Semek…I’ll never keep you guys straight.”

One thin eyebrow arched into the dark hairline, in the same way it  _always_  did when Jim was talking to a Vulcan.

“You only have to ask.” Which was what he  _said_ , but Jim doubted he’d be so willing if he said he not only mixed up their names, but couldn’t pick them out of a crowd.

“Captain Kirk.” And—because he was annoyed—he shook his hand. The scandalized expression that Tolkar shot him before jerking his hand away was more than worth it, and as he slipped quietly back into the crowd, Jim took advantage of the nearly cleared path to the buffet table. He changed his mind as soon as he saw the food—at best it looked like sand, and at worst like some demented sea creature that would attempt to eat his face if he tried to slice off a sliver. No doubt he would be losing weight for the next three months (that should make Bones happy), or be importing hamburgers or something.

“Excuse me.”

 _And here we go again…_ Jim turned, wondering if he had a sign on his back that said “Pick me, I’m new!”, and this time he was faced with possibly the prettiest  _man_  he’d ever seen. Whatever that might have meant, however, was lost when Jim saw the expression on his face, which clearly said he knew it. It figured that the only expression that would stay on a Vulcan’s face long enough to be seen would be arrogance…at the thought, Jim deliberately turned back to the array of Vulcan delicacies, and finally decided on something that looked like a relatively safe soup.

“And you are?” he asked without so much as glancing over his shoulder.

“Tolen. I must say, Captain Kirk, that you are not what I expected.”

Which meant that his name had gotten around a bit—he’d wondered if Vulcans really cared who had saved them if they were simply human, and then he reminded himself: facts. Vulcans were all about facts.

“Oh? And what’s that?”

Jim sipped his soup, and found it to be salty, so salty that it brought tears to his eyes.  _Goddamnit._

“You are very attractive, Captain.”

The compliment—in light of his throat seemingly closing up—went relatively unnoticed, and he forgot all about his goal to pair off with someone who found him attractive.

“Thanks. Thanks a lot.” It was said in-between coughs, and when he looked back at Tolen, he saw that the Vulcan wore a confused expression. Jim wanted to say “ _What?_ ”, but before he could say anything, there was a light tap on his shoulder and a cup appeared in front of him. He accepted it gratefully, glaring at anything and everything; Vulcan food was going to  _kill_  him.

But amazingly enough, the beverage went down easily, even soothing the raw feeling of his throat. Jim turned to say an unexpectedly heartfelt “thank you,” but when he opened his mouth, no words emerged.

It was  _him_. Of course it was; Jim’s luck had never held for that long, so he wasn’t surprised. However, what was surprising was the neat top braid he now wore, and the gaudy decorative clothing. Just like all the Vulcan officials. Just like all the other Unifiers. Everything clicked, about twelve hours too late.

Apparently he’d caught him in his  _pajamas_.

“I am impressed, Captain. Not many humans have ever been willing to try redspice broth.”

Jim grinned reflexively before downing the rest of his glass of blue punch, and handing it back empty. His Vulcan accepted it, calmly dodging Jim’s attempts to touch his hand.

“I was feeling adventurous. So, a Unifier, huh?”

“Yes. I am Spock.” Unlike the previous three before him, Spock did not offer the ta’al; while most of this was probably because he was still holding the empty cup in his hand, Jim liked to think it was because it was difficult to maintain formality when you’d had your tongue down someone’s throat half a day ago. Which brought Jim to something important, actually, which was that he’d been macking with someone he was actually  _supposed_  to be macking with; it took a little of the fun out of it.

“You could have said that earlier,” Jim grumbled, but good-naturedly.

Spock gave him a look worthy of Bones on his best day.

“Captain, you do not appear to be impressed by my status, so I doubted it would have changed much of our interaction.”

“Sure it would have.” Spock waited, and Jim licked his lips. “I would have tried even harder to get you to come back to my room.”

“I see you have not developed a better sense of Vulcan culture since last night.”

“What’s to develop? I’m a Unifier, you’re a Unifier, we should be getting along. You play chess? We can play in my room.” Not that Jim played chess, or that he had a chess board—it was a bit too much sitting for his tastes—but then he couldn’t recall a time when he’d ever offered to play chess with someone and actually meant the game.

“I do not. Also, I am obligated to meet all those present, as I was not able to attend the gathering last night.”

Jim nodded along absently, a little disappointed that Spock hadn’t taken the bait.

“Oh, that’s right—you were sick.” Jim paused, and for the first time since he’d met Spock, he deliberately edged away. “Wait…you were sick and you  _kissed_  me? I’m not going to catch anything, am I?”

If the expression on Spock’s face could have been described, it would have been amused, and somehow sad. Jim couldn’t conceive of a way to combine the two, and so he didn’t try.

“It is not contagious, I assure you.”

Jim heaved a sigh of relief, knowing he’d never hear the end of it if Bones found out he’d caught some strange Vulcan disease, and  _how_.

“Thank God. But if you have to meet people, you should totally put that in your resume:  _great_  kisser.” The last was said with a wink because he couldn’t help himself and because Spock had  _started_  it, but the desired effect—a smile, a look, another kiss—did not happen.

Instead, Spock looked at him like he was a curious animal—interesting, but not terribly so—before turning back to the milling crowd.

“Captain, I was only operating according to how  _you_  wished to be kissed. Vulcans are touch telepaths, if you recall.”

“Yeah, I do.” It had been in his very first briefing as a Captain, but for some reason, he forgot it every time he should have remembered. He would have felt guilty about it—who knew what sort of state secrets he might have been spilling?—but then he remembered some of the  _other_  things he’d been thinking when Spock’s hands had been on his neck, obviously gauging his willingness. “Out of curiosity, how well would you have ‘operated’ with what else I was thinking?”

Spock shot him a sidelong glance, and Jim  _knew_  that they were on the same page.

“Exceptionally, of course.”

Oh, but Jim  _liked_  him, Vulcan or not. He didn’t know how long that would last—right up until he saw a good looking Vulcan woman, probably—but for a moment, it was great not to hate everyone around him.

And naturally that was when Bones showed up, attractive female at his elbow.

“Jim, this is Christine Chapel. She’s Captain Wesley’s doctor, and she used to be in a lot of my classes. Great, isn’t she?”

Jim wondered if Bones was aware that he sounded half-infatuated, and by the look Christine shot them both, she was clearly wondering the same thing. It was almost adorable, and so even though Jim knew he could have pulled out the charm on the pretty blonde, he simply shook her hand politely.

“Doctor Chapel.” Her handshake was firm, admirably so, and Jim smiled; good, firm doctor’s hands. Then, realizing he’d forgotten, he turned quickly.

“Spock, this is Doctor McCoy. Bones, this is—”

“I know who he is,” Bones interrupted. “I was actually listening when they announced him. Feeling better?”

“Vulcans do not judge wellness on the basis of ‘feelings,’ Doctor.”

Bones glared at them both, and Jim liked Spock even more, enough that when Semek began to speak to the crowd at large, announcing the schedule for the formal interviews, Jim stayed close to his side.

Jim felt it in the air when Spock moved away, and by the time Semek was finished speaking, he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Jim couldn’t say he did much for the rest of the day; sure, he was up, but he also had virtually nothing to do with himself until his next appointment chosen by his Vulcan hosts, which happened to be an “interview” with the one Unifier he hadn’t managed to catch, and in approximately two days. Despite having the afternoon more or less to himself (well, and Bones), Jim found himself without anything hanging over his head for the first time in years. No concerns about invasions. No ship’s business. No anything except time to himself.

It was boring as hell, and Jim gave up the pretense of relaxation after about two hours, flopping himself loudly on his bed while Bones brushed his teeth nearby. When it got no response, he groaned for good measure.

Bones spit and came back, wiping his face with a towel.

“Jesus, kid, what’s got you in a foul mood?”

Jim rolled across the large bed without any purpose, and peered up at Bones through the crook of his elbow.

“Bones, it’s  _boring._ ”

Bones laughed, and tossed his towel at him.

“What did you expect? It’s a desert, and one controlled by the most uptight people in existence. Were you expecting a round-the-clock bar?”

Jim shrugged and sighed, realizing how ridiculous it was as he said it.

“Well, yeah, or something. I didn’t expect all this lag time.”

Bones just shook his head and sat heavily on one end of the bed. His mood had improved remarkably since the night before, something Jim was pretty sure was a result of him being a trauma-field doctor—at some point, you either learned to cope, or you disappeared.

“Jim, you could try branching out a little bit. Taking up a hobby, or something.”

Jim didn’t reply that his hobby up to this point had been  _sex_ , because Bones had told him more than once that it didn’t count. Aside from that, though, his other hobby had been interfering with things that were none of his business, and the stiff way Bones had carried himself the night before said that sort of thing just wasn’t happening, not this time.

What the hell was he supposed to  _do_?

Jim looked up at Bones pleadingly.

“Bones?”

“Nuh uh, Jim. We’re not going to go looking for trouble.”

“Not trouble per se,” Jim hastened to reassure him, and Bones shook his head.

“We always find it. Just…Jesus, go for a walk or something.”

Jim sighed, and wondered why  _Bones_  was suddenly being as boring as their surroundings. Maybe it was the heat…or maybe it was because he didn’t want Jocelyn to have any grounds for exclusive custody, and if Jim knew anything at all, it was that his normal activities probably fit just that description. Still. He held a hand to his heart and donned a mock-offended expression.

“I’m hurt. It’s not like I’m  _always_  in trouble.”

Bones just gave him a penetrating look, the same one he used to give his daughter when she was lying and he knew it. Jim wondered if it was a dad thing.

“Jim. Did you or did you not make out with one of the Unifiers before you knew his name?”

“So what?” Jim countered automatically, not really surprised that Bones made the connection between the “servant” from before and his sudden interest in Spock. “That’s not against the rules.”

“No, it isn’t. But how long before you get interested in someone else? You don’t need enemies, Jim.”

The warning was the same as before, and Jim scowled.

“You act like I’m incapable of staying interested in one person for an extended period of time.”

Okay, so maybe he was a bit fun loving, and a little adventurous, and kinda flirtatious. But Bones sounded liked he doubted Jim had ever dated anyone exclusively, and that just wasn’t true. He had!...for a couple of weeks, at least.

But Bones just smiled, looking like he knew better than even Jim’s best lies.

“You are, Jim. There’s nothing wrong with that—you’re young, and you have a right to enjoy your life. But who else have you been chasing since you got here? How long did you stare at Christine when she looked away? It’s in your nature, Jim.”

It was a statement of fact, and Jim swallowed.

“No one, and not at all, thanks.”

“Really.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jim eventually snapped. The disbelief in Bones’ voice was a bit unflattering, and a little disheartening—he wasn’t an  _animal_ , for God’s sake. “Honestly, I’m not stupid—Spock was  _right there_ , and I’m still trying to get him between the sheets.”

Bones shook his head, looking sad. Looking like he  _pitied_  him, and Jim wondered what he’d done wrong.

“You’re hopeless, kid. Absolutely hopeless. I worry for you sometimes.”

Jim pursed his lips, looking at Bones in suspicious confusion.

“Why?” he asked cautiously.

Bones patted him on the head.

“Because eventually you’ll fall in love, and get your heart broken.”

“Like you?” Jim responded sharply, and Bones froze, hand still poised in mid-air. Jim regretted it instantly. “Ah, hell Bones. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, Jim. Now, excuse me—I have to call my lawyer.”

Bones seemed remarkably forgiving about the entire thing; Jim stared at him as he left, fully expecting to wake up to ice water on his head, and almost looking forward to it.

Anything to break up the oppressive  _heat_.

He went for a walk in the end. Stupid, right? It was even hotter outside, but for reasons he couldn’t completely understand, he felt himself drawn to that garden from the night before. It was just as bare and scraggy in daylight, very similar to how it had looked in faint darkness, with one exception: Spock was already there, sitting on the bench and looking off into the distance.

Jim grinned and prepared to surprise him—with what, he didn’t know—when the door to the building opened and he was forced to duck behind the nearest wall immediately. Too many years of hiding from angry fathers made the action instinctive.

“S’haile Spock, return.” The words were soft and Jim was curious, so he peeked around the corner just enough to see Spock obey what must have been a request at the very least, and the door to close behind a man in a white healers’ robe.

 _That’s odd_ , he thought, a bit surprised.  _Is he still sick? And what did he call him?_

Neither answer was immediately forthcoming, but rather than pursue the matter, Jim let it go. It was unlikely anyone would think he was in his rights to burst into a private building and demand answers, and spying was equally bad. Pike’s voice appeared in his head, reminding him not to screw this up, and so he trudged quietly back to what he’d recently come to think of as “the compound.”

The night was just as boring as the day had been, but on the up side, Jim did indeed wake up to ice cubes in his bed the next morning.

********

The next few days marked the end of the Vulcan equivalent of fall, and what was laughingly and aptly termed “the first dry season.” Jim wasn’t entirely sure what that meant for the second dry season—Belaar, their equivalent of summer, _oh God_ —but he was grateful for even the smallest decrease in temperature, and a return to manageable if still hot weather. Unfortunately, with the change in seasons came the worst weather of the year, deafening lightening storms and blowing sand that required emergency procedures and the near-constant presence of forcefield surrounding the main city. The roads were also blocked to discourage travelers and trade—trade that apparently kept the Vulcans on the good side of several otherwise hostile species—ended abruptly for a grace period of two weeks.

Naturally, the entire thing made Jim feel trapped, and the feeling was only compounded by the fact that—for his own safety—he was asked not to leave the Vulcan Embassy more than necessary; they all were.

But because Vulcans were very good about keeping to a schedule and time was of the essence, Jim’s first interview proceeded as planned; five minutes before he was due to the official interview room, a Vulcan assistant was leading him through the more complicated steps of dressing himself in those gaudy formal clothes, and then herding him down two flights of stairs to the cooler basement room he was expected to remain in for approximately one hour. With a Vulcan. Talking, and asking specific, scientifically approved questions that he was provided on a list just before the large stone slab door closed behind him. Bones—who had been taking a shower when he’d left—was probably having a great guffaw right now, and Jim couldn’t say he blamed him.

The room itself was comfortable enough, with the same Spartan decoration as someone would expect of an office or entry room, and none of the glamorous detail of the rooms above them. The simple set-up of a table and two chairs directly across from each other would have been fine, in fact, had it not been for the presence of a very obvious, very large recording device. Although it had an off switch, Jim suspected the simulation of choice was just a formality, and that it was unlikely that he would be allowed a single, unmonitored word with whoever he was supposed to be interviewing. If Jim hadn’t felt trapped before, he certainly did now, and it was with an expression of panic on his face that the door opened and he turned, expecting…he didn’t know what he was expecting.

Certainly not a  _kid_.

“Greetings, Captain.” His voice was still boyishly high, too, and even though he wore the normal clothing of all the Unifiers, Jim couldn’t believe it.

“How old  _are you_?” he asked bluntly, and the Vulcan blinked at him.

“Captain, I am twenty-two years of age. May we sit?”

Jim sat, but still stared. Okay, so twenty-two wasn’t  _that_  much younger than his own twenty-five years, but he knew that Vulcans had longer lifespans, and he just looked so  _young_.

But Jim found himself smiling automatically, because he couldn’t be angry at a kid, even a Vulcan one.

“Sorry—I was just surprised. I thought all of the Unifiers were…well, older.”

The Vulcan shifted where he sat, and then he leaned forward, flicking on the recorder. It gave a noticeable hum, but Jim ignored it in favor of the thin boy across from him. He, too, had one of those long complicated braids—Jim was starting to think they  _meant_  something—but it was skinnier and less impressive, much like a kid attempting to copy their parents.

“Age was not a requirement, Captain. It was only necessary that we be available for the merger, and willing to aid in unification.”

“I get that—still, sorry. What’s your name, kid?”

The Vulcan almost looked surprised.

“I am Taren.”

“Weren’t you at the brunch a few days ago? Did I miss you?” Not that Jim would have blamed himself if he had; he might have been adventurous, but he had never considered anyone so young as a partner, not seriously.

“I was present, but did not have the opportunity to introduce myself, as you seemed to be conversing with S’haile Spock.”

The foreign word jolted his memory more than the fact that the kid sounded a bit…overly curious about that.

“What’s that mean, anyway?” Taren blinked at him and Jim explained, no doubt butchering the pronunciation. “Su-hail?”

“The closest English approximation is ‘lord.’”

Which was surprising, but not really. Spock sort of had that look of determined authority about him, but Jim was confused—he hadn’t thought the Vulcans would be willingly handing over member of their still-functioning nobility, not to  _humans_.

“Is that what everyone calls you?”

“No. Three of us are the second sons of ruling families, and are called  _Osu_. Vommeck, however, is referred to as _Savensu_ , as his determined rank is through his mother’s husband, and his scientific contributions are more substantial.”

Jim was stifling a yawn halfway through the serious explanation, and he hoped it didn’t show. He blamed it on the fact that he’d been almost dragged out of bed by Bones that morning, and that the poor kid had a voice that was nearly monotone.

When it became clear that Taren was expecting a response, Jim just shrugged.

“Geesh. I don’t know how you keep it straight.”

“Straight, Captain?”

Jim didn’t attempt to explain, simply picking up the list of “approved” questions for this interview.

“Don’t worry about it. So, Taren, are you…sorry, Osu Taren?”

Taren looked mildly puzzled.

“Taren is fine, Captain.”

“’K. So…God, who thought of these questions?” Jim didn’t wait for an answer, snorting as he pushed aside the list with such titillating conversation topics as “what is the origin of your name” and “what is the history of your location of birth.” Instead, he smiled, the expression friendly.

“Let’s try this, okay? What are your interests?” Taren hesitated, and Jim prompted him with a friendly smile, treating him much like the Russian whiz kid he had navigating on his ship—or, well, Gary Mitchell’s ship now. “I won’t bite, so it’s okay. I’m just curious.”

“I am…uncertain. I have not chosen a discipline.”

He sounded almost ashamed, and Jim shrugged.

“Hey, that’s okay; you’re still young. Plenty of time.”

Taren just stared at him.

“Thank you, Captain. What are your interests?”

And so began what was probably the most awkward conversation of his life. It seemed impossible; Jim had interviewed for jobs before, had to stand in front of a dozen judgmental admirals when receiving his first captaincy, but there was nothing— _nothing_ —more awkward than essentially having a monitored date and feeling a bit sleazy knowing that the person on the other end of the table was considering marriage and he wasn’t. Seriously, there was a  _reason_  Jim didn’t have long-term relationships, and it wasn’t just because of his own issues. Okay, so maybe it was.

But by the end of it all—an hour and a half,  _really_?—Taren smiled at him and shook his hand and went on his way, and Jim—exhausted from the effort of being nice and curbing his kind of obscene jokes—went limp in his chair. Four more. He had  _four more_  of these damn things, and then he was going to get  _married_.

As soon as he got back to his room and saw the perfectly cleaned surroundings when he knew he’d left it a mess, Jim knew he had to get out of here. He was pulling on a long sleeved shirt and a thin coat when Bones came back, carrying a plate of something that must have been fruit, but brown.

“Going somewhere, Jim?”

Jim just sat and pulled on his boots.

“Bones, I have to get out of here.” His voice sounded frantic to his own ears; this was probably the reason Bones’ tone was less patronizing than he would have expected.

“You do know they told us not to leave, right? The whole place is locked down tighter than a bug’s behind, and with good reason. Sandstorms can kill you, Jim.”

Jim shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, and it wasn’t.

“I’m just going next door,” the words emerged before Jim was fully aware that’s where he was planning to go, but he didn’t take them back.

“To do what?”

“Nothing in particular,” Jim replied with a grin. “Just hold down the fort, okay Bones?”

“Jim!” Jim paused at the doorway, and waited. Bones just sighed, and took a big bite of the fleshy fruit on his plate. “You’ll die of heat in that getup.”

“But hopefully I won’t die of a sandstorm!” Jim said cheerfully as he disappeared out the door, closing solid wood on Bones’ response. He would only be gone for a few minutes anyway, he told himself. Just a quick walk to remind himself that he was his own man, made his own choices, and wasn’t kept by anyone, man or woman.

Like with many of the choices he made out of anger and rebellion, it was a stupid one. Sneaking past the few guards at the wide double doors and the few more that we scattered throughout the lobby was easy enough, but once he was outside, he realized it would be infinitely more difficult to sneak back  _inside…_ and what was outside was  _hell_.

Jim had never experienced a sandstorm personally, but he’d passed his desert training, same as anyone else in Starfleet. He’d gotten used to the heat, to carrying a small survival kit, to seeking shelter and going out only at night, but there had never been an actual emergency, not while he or his group was out. He thought, now, that Starfleet had been severely lax in that respect, because even as minimized as the storm was (and it  _was_ ; the forcefield was going strong, which meant most of the storm had been stopped at the gates) it was still awful, and dangerous. He covered his face to keep the sand from his eyes, mouth, and nose, pulled the hood of his coat up as high as it would go to block the sun, walked carefully on the off chance that the winds had made craters in the ground. He couldn’t see two feet in front of his face, and Jim couldn’t help but think this had been a bad, bad idea.

Eventually he did reach the building next door—Spock’s building. He didn’t know why he went there except that he’d said he would and the emergency conditions hadn’t occurred to him, but now that he was leaning against the outer wall, he felt foolish. Spock was not sitting in the garden as he had been a few days earlier—he was bundled up inside, just like everyone else, and Jim knew he couldn’t intrude on Spock’s hospitality, not if he wanted to save face.

Jim had just resolved to turn around and head back, retracing his steps while they remained, when something dark moved out of the corner of his eye, just off to one side. Jim thought it was an animal at first, but then the ‘something’ stepped up onto the porch, and revealed itself to be two beings. Outside. In the storm. What’s more, one was obviously a trader—bundled up like he’d been prepared to traverse this very storm, and looking like a human to boot, carrying a large bag that swished with water as he moved. The other man—Vulcan—was familiar, and by Jim’s memory, it was Healer Silen.

They conversed briefly, very briefly, and Silen accepted a small pouch, no larger than a comm device, and the trader went on his way.

 _Odd_ , Jim thought. Apparently, Vulcans were allowed to break their own rules…and then Healer Silen turned, looked directly at his corner, and Jim knew that he was spotted.

 _Shit_.

Being the  _logical_  person he was, rather than heed what sounded like a call after him, Jim turned and trudged back to the compound as quickly as his feet could carry him, disappearing into the storm.


	5. Chapter 5

Jim received notification of his second interview the next day, a very informal notice saying that it would take place in the same room, and in approximately three weeks. He didn’t know whether to be excited about that or not, certain that his first interview hadn’t gone well enough and knowing that—if he did worse on the remaining four—he would indeed be marrying the kid. Thankfully, Jim had the chance during his down time to look at the question list again, and he was pleased to note that there was indeed a section for preferences for a spouse at the bottom, not that he knew enough about marriage to have such a preference.

Still. Between feeling like a creep for years in the future and just marrying someone that he couldn’t overall stand, the answer was obvious. And for the first time since he’d arrived, Jim reached some measure of acceptance with the issue, because hey, he’d have his ship eventually, and this would all be behind him.

He kept the hologram running almost non-stop to remind himself when the boredom became too much, and it was only shut off when Bones made him or Jim found himself taking another walk. With the sandstorm watch period ending within a few days and the sky once again clear, Jim could even say that the walks were pleasant as long as they stayed short, and predictable. Up and down the street, just to the next hotel, and then back again, taking the long way around the embassy before entering—that was how Jim spent his mornings these days instead of patrolling his ship, and sometimes he even had an unexpected treat.

Around eight in the morning, every morning, Spock would be sitting in the small garden attached to his building. Jim gave him more than a passing glance a couple of times but watched him only once, noticing that he stayed for exactly fifteen minutes with his eyes closed, breathing deeply and looking—by all accounts—like he wanted to meditate, but with the sun on his face. There was something inexplicably sad about it and so Jim never watched him again, but every once in a while, his walks would coincide with Spock’s “break,” and Jim would get to see him looking so at peace, dressed neatly but garishly amid the ramble of rocks and scraggy plants. Jim never said “good morning;” he thought it would ruin it. Spock never said it either, but then, Jim liked to think Spock didn’t know he’d been walking by his building at least twice a day.

And when he wasn’t walking, he was…sitting. Just sitting. After a week of devouring every book he could find, Jim up and decided to actually  _learn_  to play chess, and he had a very nice board imported that he practiced with for hours. He thought he was pretty good at it after a couple weeks, actually, and between his board and his walks and his hologram, he was almost content.

The low point came about four days before his self-imposed training was about to be derailed by a second interview, and that was in the form of Bones having another breakdown. The lawyer he’d gotten, while sweet and understanding about payment, was not the vicious bastard Jocelyn had gotten, and Bones was losing custody. Completely.

There was no liquor to be found, of course, but Jim did manage to dig up some fruit juice and something that seemed suspiciously like sherbet, and they had sweet sundaes that didn’t give anyone that pleasant burn of alcohol but kept them from talking all the same. Bones survived, and so did Jim; it was what they did.

The second low point came two days later, when Healer Silen unexpectedly showed up at his door. Well, not unexpectedly per se—Jim had been expecting it in the sense that he’d expected a call from Starfleet about disobeying orders and spying on one of their new Vulcan friends, and being dismissed summarily from the service (or at least the parts that required close contact with Vulcans.) He’d somehow lulled himself into a false sense of security after a few days, thinking that if nothing had happened yet, nothing would.

He was wrong.

“Captain Kirk,” Silen greeted, putting way too much emphasis on the ending ‘k’ sound, but Jim got that a lot from Vulcans.

“Yes?” Bones had disappeared to the kitchen for breakfast by then, and Jim was completely alone. He considered being worried about that, but then decided not to—Silen didn’t look angry.

But just to be safe, Jim immediately took the offensive.

“I didn’t mean to spy on you, you know. I just…wanted a walk.”

“You wanted a walk during our yearly sandstorm?” If Vulcans could be incredulous, Silen certainly seemed that way.

“Well, you wanted to do  _business outside_  during the storm, so it’s not that weird.” Jim realized how suspicious the statement sounded and immediately backtracked, ending on a weak note. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

Silen responded blankly.

“It was necessary that I acquire certain medical substances, and the matter could not wait. It is regrettable that my business had to be conducted outside the safety of the walls and at such a time, but it could not be helped.”

Which all made perfect sense, of course. It was logical and exactly something a Vulcan would come up with. Jim wondered if he should feel guilty for suspecting the worst of one of his hosts, but on second thought, decided not to; after all, they had been enemies less than a month prior, so suspicion was well-justified. And even with Silen’s explanation and peaceful departure, the suspicion of a Vulcan up to no good lingered.

 _What the hell is wrong with me_?

Jim didn’t have an answer, and so rather than pursue the matter—none of his business, after all—he resumed his chess game, doing his best to forget the conversation entirely.

********

Jim considered himself a grand master in chess by the time his next interview rolled around, and he even thought about taking the board into that little room this time to stave off the boredom, but didn’t do so; he kind of thought his hosts wouldn’t appreciate it, and besides, he didn’t want to scare away prospects with his incredibly  _human_  hobbies.

He regretted the choice almost instantly, and he continued to regret it for forty-five minutes.  _Forty-five minutes!_  His only consolation was that the Vulcans who had arranged the entire thing seemed equally annoyed, as they walked in and out of the cool basement room in a way that wasn’t pacing, absolutely not. Jim was about ready to call the whole thing a bust and reschedule with whoever-the-hell when Spock calmly walked into the room, wearing a brown and gold robe and with his hair neatly pulled back.

 “Geesh, I hope you don’t make a habit of this. Aren’t Vulcans supposed to be all punctual?”

Spock pulled out his chair and sat, and Jim watched him. It was probably his imagination that Spock was moving more carefully than he had before.

“Forgive me, Captain. I was detained.”

Jim snorted, wondering about that, and his voice was full of disbelief as he said, “Yeah, sure.”

“Do you have any questions before we start?” Spock asked politely, hand hovering over the “on” switch on the recorder. Jim considered, watching the way his sleeve kind of draped around his arm, the fabric looking soft under the gaudy decoration.

“Yeah. How easily does that robe come off?”

If Spock was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it, or humor him.

“Very easily. May we begin?” Jim shrugged, and the switch was flipped. Spock tilted one hand in his direction. “You may start.”

“Alright,” Jim replied with a shrug, picking up that same paper he’d worried and wrinkled over the course of the past weeks. Of course, no new questions had appeared on the worn parchment, and so he pushed it aside, deciding to go with the tried-and-true approach of last time. “What are your interests?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Huh?” Jim was baffled, and he wondered if it was just Spock’s way of telling him to stick to the assigned questions.

“You do not care about the answer. I would suggest asking questions that only pertain to your interests, as it will make the following interviews much more pleasant.”

Jim shrugged again and folded his hands together.

“Fine. History of your name?”

“Also irrelevant.” Apparently not, then. Jim couldn’t help but feel annoyed, because how  _the hell_  was he supposed to talk to someone whose only reply was to tell him that he should stop asking stupid questions?

“Well, how about you tell me what’s  _relevant_  and then I’ll ask the question! Or better yet, how about you start?”

Spock looked away with disinterest, to the refreshments provided after Jim had waited for half an hour. He looked away just as quickly.

“It is unnecessary for me to ask questions.”

“Why? My first contestant asked questions.”

“Most probably, but Captain, I already know the answers.”

Jim had been annoyed before, but he wasn’t now; he was  _furious_.

“Oh? Well if you’re so smart, why couldn’t you  _keep track of the time_?”

Spock looked at him then, and his eyes flashed.  _That_ , Jim thought. That was what he wanted, and he took some sort of cruel enjoyment out of it.

“I already informed you that I was detained.”

Jim laughed openly, the entire exchange seeming familiar.

“Detained my ass. Let me guess: planning another attack on Earth while we’re all cozy up here? Huh?”

Spock stiffened like old bark.

“I will not dignify that with an answer.”

Jim should have stopped; he knew that. But he was on a roll, and for some reason, Spock seemed to bring out the worst in him. It didn’t seem important that he was trying to being charming, that he was attempting to be friendly, because he had only ever had one question for Vulcans, one use for them.

_Why? My God, WHY? Every attack, every battle, every—_

“Well, I already “know the answers” anyway. And the answer is that, even if you’re not in some active part of some conspiracy, you’ve been alive for—what?—thirty years, and you haven’t done a damn thing to stop this war. Not a damn thing.”

There was silence for a single heartbeat—human, not Vulcan, dammit!—and then Spock spoke quietly.

“Have you?”

Jim saw red, and he knew it reflected on his face. Before he could say anything that would truly doom this tentative alliance, however, Spock snapped out a hand and slapped the switch on the recorder back to “off.”

“This interview is over, Captain. Excuse me.”

Spock pushed himself to his feet, and Jim was ready to say “good riddance, you fucker” when Spock suddenly went pale, and swayed.

Jim didn’t even realize he’d stood to help him until Spock waved a hand at him to take his seat again. He didn’t even realize he wasn’t angry anymore, his heart beating fast for an entirely different reason—he’d never been able to refuse anyone help, not ever—until Spock spoke, slightly out of breath.

“Thank you for your concern, Captain, but it is unnecessary. I stood too quickly.”

Jim ignored the explanation in favor of looking at him, truly looking at him. Pale. Shaking. Running late and not wanting to look at food.

“Dude, are you sick  _again_?” Jim crossed his arms, almost not believing the exasperation in his own voice, but honestly? Twice in one month was unhealthy as hell, never mind the fact that Vulcans weren’t as susceptible to bugs as humans were. Twice in one  _year_  was unusual for Vulcans.

Spock huffed out a sound that sounded an awful lot like a laugh, albeit a weak one.

“Yes and no.”

The answer made absolutely no sense and Jim sighed. The anger he’d been feeling suddenly seemed irrational. Justified!...but almost absurd. Spock was only one person.

“Here, let me help you.”

Jim stood, and Spock edged away.

“I assure you, I am fine.” The words were almost bitter.

“Then at least let me walk you back. What floor do you live on in that building, anyway?”

Spock looked at him suspiciously, but didn’t seem to have the energy to edge away again when Jim came to his side of the table.

“The third.”

“Yeah, no way are you going to make it up two flights of stairs like this.”

“I will manage.”

Jim sighed, frustrated, and he tapped his foot impatiently.

“Then here. I’ll follow you— _not_  helping you—and then leave you to whatever it was you’d planned to do after. Okay?”

Spock hesitated a bit longer than was really flattering, but Jim didn’t get angry this time.

“That is acceptable.”

“ _Thank you._ ” Okay, so maybe he was a little annoyed, but it passed quickly when Spock turned, walking stiffly. Jim followed. “Stubborn ass,” he mumbled under his breath.

Spock didn’t turn, but he did pause at the doorway.

“Captain, I am not a member of the Equidae, nor am I a very specific part of humanoid anatomy.”

Jim laughed, surprised at himself, but he didn’t question it. Once Spock started to move more confidently, he also moved very quickly, and Jim almost had to hurry to keep up…within catching distance, if necessary.

It wasn’t; Spock, as he’d said, was fine, at least until they had passed the puzzled expressions of the guards and he slumped noticeably against the wall of his own building. Jim didn’t try to help him, but he did wait patiently until Spock murmured another “do not concern yourself” and continued.

He paused at the stairs, and Jim extended his hand, placing it on Spock’s elbow. Spock sighed noticeably, and Jim felt his lips twitch.

“Hey, at least it’s only me, right? No one takes me seriously.”

Spock looked at him doubtfully as they took the steps slowly. Jim was pleased and kind of impressed that the hand he kept on Spock’s arm was more for appearances than anything, and he was reminded—rather abruptly—of how stubborn Bones said  _he_  was.

“On the contrary, Captain. By all accounts, you were our savior.”

Jim…actually felt really uncomfortable with that. And as with anytime Jim felt uncomfortable, he attempted to joke.

“Hey, just call me Space-Jesus.” And joke badly. Did he mention that?

“I do not understand that reference.”

Jim shrugged as they passed the last step.

“I’ll explain it to you later.”

Spock didn’t comment on that, and they moved in silence up the remaining twenty steps. When they had reached the landing, Jim released Spock immediately— _not_  thinking about how warm his palm was—and Spock seemed to appreciate it, not even questioning it when Jim followed him down the hallway.

With his perfectly appropriate concern for Spock out of the way, Jim was able to glance around, and saw an office, three bedrooms, and a bathroom, all neatly tucked in the corner. They were appealing and surprisingly small considering the size of the building, and Jim wondered what else went on inside the confines of what appeared to be a series of empty rooms.

He didn’t ask, though, because as soon as Spock reached the bedroom at the far end, he gave Jim a look that said he was grateful for his assistance, but his presence was no longer welcome.

“Thank you, Captain. Here will be sufficient.”

But, surprisingly, Jim didn’t go. He ran off at the mouth because it seemed like the thing to do, but the subject surprised even him.

“You don’t know everything about me, you know. I have goals, and…things,” he trailed off, and Spock looked doubtful, and pitying. Jim felt his face burn like it hadn’t in years.

“Goals, Captain? You are here to gain the ship promised you by your superiors. To be an active captain once again. You do not care about our planet or our politics, our ways or our people. It seems foolish to pretend.”

Spock’s words weren’t accusing. They weren’t anything, not even annoyed; they were spoken like inarguable fact, and the truth was, that’s what they were. Jim had just never had it laid out for him before.

“I’m only human.” He wondered why he sounded defensive.

“You are also going to be awarded a seat on our High Council. This is the very same council that declares war, and with one-third of the council being occupied by humans, the three-fifths majority necessary for that action will be very unlikely.”

Jim hadn’t known that. Why had nobody told him? Except…he kind of remembered Pike mentioning that, now that he thought about it. He also remembered saying “They’ll find a way around that” and believing it quite heartily. He…believed it less, now.

And Spock seemed to see that. All of it.

“Good evening, Captain. I trust you will see yourself out?”

Jim nodded because he didn’t know what to say—“for once in his life,” Bones would no doubt add—and he trailed down the stairs, aware of Spock entering what must have been his bedroom and closing the door behind him. There were people milling about, servants and apparent businessman, but Jim didn’t feed his curiosity to find out what happened in the building besides it being a residence. He simply wandered out the door, wandered and wondered, and when he reached his own bedroom— _a nice, cushy bedroom, fit for a politician,_  his mind reminded him—he sat heavily on his bed.

There was the sound of a shower shutting off, and then Bones peeked his head out of the bathroom.

“Jim?”

Jim sighed loudly, just to take the look of what must have been shell shock off his face. Bones grunted in acknowledgement, and came out wearing a fluffy white towel. Jim stared at him, and Bones tilted his head towards the nightstand table. A glance revealed the white paper that he had forgotten in the interview room when he’d essentially followed Spock home.

“Some Vulcan came and brought that, said you’d left it about fifteen minutes ago. Where’d you run off to?”

Jim frowned, and looked around the room slowly, at the plush carpet and large beds and the chess board that had been imported without question. He didn’t know  _what_  to feel about any of it.

“Nowhere, Bones. Just a walk.”

Bones snorted like he knew better, and Jim flopped on his back, on his bed, while the sounds of a shower resumed. Jim just stared at the half-finished game across the room, and listened to the sounds of luxury around him.

Suddenly, he didn’t want to play chess anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

His next interview was scheduled for another three weeks later, and Jim wondered if the Vulcans were just dicking around now. In theory, he understood what they were doing: the more interviews (brief as they were) the more time it took to cross match people, to see who fit best and all that. It made sense in a scientific geekery way, but that meant that he had three weeks— _three more damn weeks_ —of feeling out of place, and wondering if Vulcans did or did not like some vague idea he had running around his mind. It was going to drive him crazy, he knew it—that or  _kill_  him, and Jim almost wondered if that was their goal. Wondered briefly, because if he wondered too long, Spock’s voice would pop into his head, all offended by the very  _idea_  of dastardly war-mongering plans and then all pitying because Jim couldn’t _understand_ that, and then he was annoyed and uncomfortable.

He hadn’t had dreams about Spock for a while now—not sexual ones, anyway, and that was annoying as hell, considering his conscious mind still found him attractive. His subconscious mind, though, just seemed to want to argue with dream-Spock, and—in one particularly weird dream—wanted to actually play chess with him. And the one time that had happened, Jim had woken up with a big smile on his face, wide enough to freak the hell out of him (and Bones.)

But because he had never done the logical thing when his mind was playing tricks on him—mainly, to  _avoid_  whatever was keeping him from his normal sleep—he did the exact opposite.

For three days, Jim took not one, not two, not  _three_ , but four walks a day. He didn’t see Spock once, but he didn’t think much of that—he was probably still recovering from whatever illness he had, and Jim knew that blistering heat was not the way to soothe your body.

But on the fourth day, Jim gave up all pretense of walking and simply hopped over the little half-fence to stand in the garden, in broad daylight. When nobody came to immediately throw him out, Jim took that as cautious welcome, and responded by picking up a handful of rocks and  _politely_  throwing them at what his vague knowledge of the building made him suspect was either Spock’s bedroom or the office next door.

The tiny taps continued until his handful was gone, but nobody emerged. So, Jim tried a different tactic, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Romeo, oh Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo!”

The window was pushed open to reveal a rather disgruntled looking Spock.

“Captain.” Jim beamed and waved. “I have no intention of drinking poison, and for that matter, I am also unlikely to stab myself. Please desist throwing pebbles at my window, and come inside the building like a normal visitor.”

The windows closed, and Jim found himself laughing. “That’s my boy!”

He knocked on the door and was let in immediately, but the woman who answered—the first female Vulcan he could remembering seeing who wasn’t already well into old age—didn’t look pleased. So Jim smiled some more, and she eyed him like he was something slimy at her feet.

“My name is T’Pring, and I am an employee on this floor.” Jim nodded, and she sighed, her pretty face shimmering with just enough makeup. “Please follow me.”

Jim did so; he stared at her ass, too, on principle, and was surprised to find himself only marginally appreciative. So, a Vulcan woman wasn’t as attractive as a Vulcan man—surprising, but fine.

She also, unfortunately, showed every sign of hating him instantly, and Jim wondered very briefly what that was about. Wondered and then dismissed it, because as soon as she left him to return to her work, he burst dramatically into Spock’s office.

Spock looked up—he was wearing blue and gold today, and Jim thought it looked better on him than the brown—but he otherwise did nothing except raise an eyebrow. Jim noticed he was no longer sickly pale, and the healthy color brought an unexpected smile to his face.

“How do you know  _Romeo and Juliet_ , anyway?” Jim opened with, because it seemed appropriate. Spock responded by carefully setting aside the datapadd he held in his hands, curiously next to a clipboard with loose paper on it. The contrast was strange.

“My mother introduced me to the play when I was very young, to impress upon me the foolishness that occurs when children do not listen to their parents and parents do not listen to their children. Her choice was apt.”

Jim smiled wider, and although Spock did not offer him one, he took a seat in the nearest chair.

“Sounds like my kind of lady. She live here?”

Spock shook his head, and a single loose strand of hair wisped across his face. Jim was unaccountably amused, at least until Spock answered.

“Unfortunately, my mother was never in residence, and she died six years ago. An accident.”

Jim winced, and his smile faded. Damn, but he was never good at sympathy when a situation called for honest grief.

“I’m sorry.”

Spock seemed surprised by the courtesy.

“It is no matter. After my father’s death, she did not consider life worth living as much as she had before, even despite their…difficulties.”

Jim frowned at the explanation, not just because it sounded very odd for Vulcan culture, but because it exposed him to an uncomfortably personal bit of Spock’s history that he wasn’t entirely sure he was entitled to know.

“That doesn’t sound very Vulcan at all,” Jim finally said, as casually as he could. Spock actually shrugged.

“It is not, but then, my mother was human. As such, she was susceptible to the emotional follies of your species.”

Jim wasn’t offended, because he was too busy being shocked.

“Human?” Spock nodded shortly and Jim whistled. “I didn’t know that was allowed. I thought…er.”

Actually, now that he thought about it, the concern for mixed-species babies had to have some precedent. Apparently, that precedent was  _Spock_ , and the conclusion was only reinforced by Spock’s explanation.

“My mother and father were never married,” Spock explained shortly, and Jim waited. “Also, neither Vulcans nor humans believed cross-species reproduction possible prior to my conception and birth, and as a result, the rules prohibiting it have only come to exist in the past few years. I believe the impression was that it was ‘contaminating the species.’” Jim nodded along thoughtfully, seriously doubting that it was that simple, and Spock watched the motion with eerie interest. “Now, how may I help you, Captain? Aside from your obvious interest in my familiarity with Shakespeare.”

“Obvious, huh?” Jim repeated to himself, an odd sort of smile on his face as he glanced at the floor. When he looked up, Spock was still waiting for a response, and Jim cleared his throat. “Well, I wanted to propose a…a trade of sorts. Well. You know. I teach you something, you teach me something.”

Spock appeared reluctantly curious. For a Vulcan, he was practically on the edge of his seat.

“And what, pray tell, can you teach me?”

Jim hadn’t thought that far, but now, watching Spock sitting so stiffly, he had a sudden idea.

“How to relax, for one. Seriously, we can start right now.” Jim patted the arms of his chair, and Spock looked at him oddly. “Now, scoot over here and gimme your feet.”

Spock shifted his chair to the other side of the desk with surprising obedience, but he looked at Jim doubtfully, sitting as primly as he had been when blocked by the solid wood fixture.

“My feet?”

Jim held out his hands and wiggled them. Wiggled his eyebrows too, and Spock’s shot up into his hairline.

“Your feet.”

Spock very reluctantly placed his booted feet across Jim’s palms, and Jim propped them on his knee, hands resting against the worn felt. Seeing Spock attempt to maintain his perfect posture while in such an undignified position almost made him laugh. “Now loosen up—your back’s all stiff. Bend a little.”

“Like so?” Spock slumped drastically, the action looking almost painful, and Jim waved his hands immediately.

“No, that’s—“ He paused, disbelieving. “You’re joking with me.”

Spock, in response, straightened back to normal and removed his feet from Jim’s lap.

“I assure you, there is not a Vulcan in existence that is afflicted with such a thing as ‘humor.’”

“But you’re half-human!” Jim announced, pointing an accusing finger at him. Spock raised his other eyebrow, and somehow, Jim felt like a fool.

“Indeed. Now, what would you like me to teach you, Captain?”

The question was very open-ended, but for once, Jim didn’t turn it into innuendo.

“I want you to teach me about Vulcan culture, and politics.”

“That would seem counterproductive, as I am busy and you have no interest in the subject,” Spock announced, clearly considering the subject dismissed.  _Irrelevant_.

“You know that?” Jim countered, and was a little disheartened to see Spock nod immediately.

“I do. You are very easy to read, and your goals are as I have stated previously. There is no shame in that.”

Funny, but Jim felt differently. But how could he say that, when it was his own damn fault? He couldn’t, not with his pride choking him, and so he said the next best thing.

“You’re easy to read too, you know.”

“Indeed.”

“Yeah. And right now you’re wondering why it had to be you that I ran into that first night, and why I get on your nerves so much.”

Spock did not respond immediately.

“Not precisely.”

Jim took that as a victory, and held out his hands for an explanation. 

“Then what?”

“I was wondering why you did not begin this conversation with an inappropriately sexual comment, as you have done on nearly every occasion.”

“Oh.” Jim blinked, not expecting that, and then he grinned wickedly. “Would it make you feel better if I had?”

“Not precisely.”

“Hey, Spock.” Spock stared at him, waiting. “I like your feet. Boots and all,” Jim announced cheerfully, and Spock looked exasperated. Jim sobered immediately, not wanting to change the subject, fun as  _that_  subject was. “But more importantly, you’re right. I’m not interested in politics, not in the least. And you’re right about me being given an opportunity to change some of the things I’ve been complaining about, so here I am, ready to learn. Even if I get on my ship and disappear when this year is up, the knowledge will still be there when I need it.”

Spock seemed to consider the announcement more seriously than anything Jim had said up to that point: another victory.

“Correct. May I ask why you have contacted me?”

That, at least, was the easy part.

“Because you’re the only Vulcan I know, Spock, who doesn’t treat me like an idiot. Who doesn’t think I’m an idiot. Foolish, maybe, but not an idiot.”

“Fascinating.” And Spock looked at him like he’d never seen him before, and Jim—although he felt triumphant—wondered if that was the only reason he felt a grin stretch his lips until his cheeks hurt.

“Told you I could read you. Now, will you help me?”

“I will. But not today, Captain—I have an interview in one hour.”

“Oh.” Realization hit, and Jim deflated almost instantly. “ _Oh._  Tomorrow, then?”

Spock nodded and picked up his padd again, but didn’t bother to resume his position behind the desk. Jim considered it progress.

“Yes, Captain. Tomorrow. Now, if you will see yourself out.”

“Sure,” Jim agreed quickly and then—because Spock had already  _agreed_ —he darted out a hand and tucked that stray strand of hair behind Spock’s ear.

“Later, Spock!” he announced cheerfully, flicking the pointed ear tip as he did so.

Spock stared after him in alarm, but Jim waved and ducked out the door before he could respond beyond that.

********

Jim—as someone who’d never been entrenched in academia, even when given the opportunity—found his first “lesson” with Spock to be less than stimulating. Same for the second. And the third.

However, in his defense, this was because they all covered  _the exact same things._  Jim found himself perfectly justified when—upon entering Spock’s very tidy office, and seeing the same books laid out and the same diagrams drawn for the fourth day in a row—he groaned loudly.

Spock just waited for him patiently from his normal seat behind the desk, looking less than impressed and kind of intimidating in dark purple and black.

“Captain, I understand that this information is not terribly interesting to you. However, you must agree that the basics are the foundation of any good education, and repetition is also a proven instruction technique.”

It was the same lecture Spock had given him last time, and as before, Jim sighed, sat, and found himself agreeing very reluctantly.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Good,” Spock said with a firm nod, holding up three fingers. “Now, repeat after me: there are—”

 “—three councils,” Jim finished tiredly. “There’s the High Council, and that’s run by a small group of people selected from the pool of those with royal backgrounds, or who married into them, and they watch over land and stuff. There’s the High Command, which is an entirely elected group, and they’re supposed to represent the wishes of the people. And then there’s the Science Council, which is elected based on merit and makes decisions purely on what’s a viable option and leaves the moral issues to everyone else.”

“Correct. What else?”

“Each council is supposed to be made up of ten people, but the High Council has fifteen seats now to make room for the human Unifiers. Any major decision—like going to war—has to make it through the Science Council, then the High Command, then the High Council, with a sixty percent majority in each. They’re supposed to balance each other.” Jim paused, and then finished with a grin. “And you’re also the only Vulcan currently on all three councils, smarty-pants.” For reasons, of course, that Spock had failed to explain in any great detail.

“I fail to see what my ‘pants’ have to do with this,” Spock said dubiously, eyeing Jim in more or less the same suspicious way he had for their past lessons. Jim would have been amused, but then he saw Spock reaching for a familiar book— _Structure of Vulcan Culture_ , it said, something Jim only knew because Spock had translated the title before—and Jim threw up his hands, exasperated.

“And  _I_  fail to see why I have to keep repeating this. We’ve been covering this for three days, Spock! Three days!” Their lessons had not been consecutive because Spock was busy and Jim couldn’t handle it, but they had been close enough together that the excuse of ‘review’ seemed unlikely.

Spock just waited until he was finished, however, seemingly without sympathy.

“And you are very familiar with the material, correct?”

Jim snorted and slumped low in his chair.

“Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I am.”

 _Which doesn’t mean this isn’t overkill_ , he mentally added, tempted to throw his hands in the air, say “fuck it!” and storm off. He didn’t, though, because he  _had_  asked and Spock was a busy person, and because Jim wasn’t as impulsive as people said.

So instead, Jim waited for any number of things—another review of the same material, a disinterested look, a rude hand gesture—and he was surprised when that familiar, hated book was pushed aside.

“Then this part of the instruction is completed. Do you have any questions?”

Jim blinked, expecting a dozen to spring to his lips, and was surprised when nothing came. He really  _did_  remember those three-hundred pages pretty well. However, because Spock looked perfectly aware of this fact and smug to boot, Jim found a few anyway.

“Yeah, a couple,” he said with a shrug, and was rewarded to see Spock’s eyebrow shoot towards his sleek hair. “For one, who the heck is that snooty girl downstairs? She gave me the stink-eye again today.”

“The stink…?”

Jim explained with another shrug, trying to look like it didn’t bother him, although it kind of did. He just wasn’t used to beautiful women being  _that_  pissed at him.

“She said her name was T’Pring.”

Spock nodded, seemingly understanding.

“Ah. She is a childhood acquaintance, a very distant relative, and until recently, my lover.”

 _Whoa. Swing and a miss there, buddy._  And Jim had thought—mistakenly, it seemed—that Vulcans didn’t do sex without marriage. He had double-assumed that  _Spock_  certainly didn’t, and—when his fantasies had returned full force a couple nights ago—that assumption had fueled more than a couple dreams he wanted to have again. The knowledge that they were without basis was…almost disappointing. Not too disappointing, though, since the image was now replaced with a picture of two very attractive, dark haired Vulcans twisting together. Like twins.

Of course, once his over-excitable mind realized what Spock had actually  _said_  and not what that meant for his masturbatory fantasies, he realized there might be a bit of a problem.

“Oh hell. She doesn’t think I’m trampling over her territory, does she?”

Spock spoke dismissively over his shoulder as he moved around the room, placing the textbooks and resources back in their proper place and gathering new ones.

“Not that I am aware. She is to be married when Stonn returns from space, and seems content with the match. I merely kept her company while her son was not in residence to distract her.” Spock glanced over his shoulder and saw Jim’s stare, and he amended quickly, “Her son who is not my son.”

Jim felt his heart slow down—that would have been a  _hell_  of a shock—and he asked, curiously:

“Whose son is he?”

“Stonn’s,” Spock responded, as though the answer were obvious. Jim was starting to think nothing was obvious at this point, not where Vulcan relationships were concerned.

“So…she had a kid with him, jumped into bed with you, and is going to marry him again?” Jim summarized, just to be certain. “How does Stonn feel about all this?”

“He proposed the idea.” Silence followed in the wake of Jim’s surprise, and Spock finished unnecessarily. “Theirs is a complicated relationship.”

“I can see that.” Jim could also see that Vulcans were kinkier than he’d been giving them credit for, and yes, he’d think about that later. “And she’s mad at me because…?”

“Stonn does not return for five months, and I expect she misses our assignations. The decision to unify with Earth at this time was unexpected.”

 _Because Earth saved our ass,_  Jim filled in himself. Of course, Spock had answered the unasked question for that before: the Unifiers had been chosen ( _volunteered my ass_ ) approximately twenty years ago for an alliance. Apparently, they just hadn’t decided  _who_  they were going to ally with until a few weeks ago. Thinking of all the nightmare scenarios associated with that—Vulcans allied with Klingons, or Romulans, or Andorians—made him grateful for his accidental save of their planet, if not exactly appreciative of his own role at the moment.

His role that had, apparently, taken away someone’s fuck buddy.

“Poor lady.” Jim wondered if he could ask beyond that—mainly, who  _Spock_  was slipping it to at the moment, and something he found he had an almost ridiculous interest in—when Spock sat down again, his hands heaped with more textbooks.

Didn’t Vulcans store  _any_  of this in their computer system?

“You stated you had multiple questions.”

Jim didn’t, really, but he watched Spock thumb through several thick, old pages with the sort of delicacy one reserved for handling baby animals, and he thought of those fingers on the back of his neck, in his hair, in…other places.

“Yeah. Can I suck on your fingers?”

Spock jolted, and the almost open expression on his face immediately shut down. Oops—Jim had forgotten.

“No, you may  _not_.”

 “Geesh, you’re all skittish now. Does it really bother you so much that I touched your ear?” This lesson wasn’t even as bad as the first or second in that respect; those lessons, Spock had watched his hands like some sort of dangerous predator after a meal, and he’d kept at least six feet away at all times.

It had been fun and kind of unnerving, and Jim definitely preferred that over the obvious stiffening of Spock’s spine that he saw now.

“Captain.” Jim looked away from Spock’s ears, aware that he’d been staring, and he smiled apologetically. “To a Vulcan, touching of the ears is comparable to touching the back of the knee on a human.”

Yeah, that was weird.

“I have no idea what that means.”

“It means that Vulcan ears are highly sensitive, and that the touch is much too personal for casual acquaintances, more so than a kiss would be.”

Which explained a lot; Jim agreed to the boundary without thought, because he was determined and kind of sick of Spock being all proper over there.

“Alright. No ears, then, and no fingers. Well, gee, that leaves almost no options at all.”

Spock looked less wary, but not amused as Jim had hoped.

“Captain, I do not see why you insist on ‘teasing’ me.”

 _And here I thought I was flirting._  Ineffectively, it seemed—Jim would have to try a new tactic.

“Sorry—won’t happen again.” Well, not consciously, anyway.

Spock nodded, seemingly trusting the matter to be dismissed. Jim smiled, hoping the expression was as innocent as his thoughts definitely  _weren’t_.

 “Now, Captain, we move from the vocabulary of Vulcan politics to the purpose. Repeat after me…”


	7. Chapter 7

That night, Jim realized what he could teach Spock in return for the (admittedly dry) lessons he was receiving, and two days later, he implemented his plan. T’Pring didn’t really agree with his attempt to surprise Spock, of course, because she was kind of a tightass and kind of Vulcan, but eventually—very eventually—he convinced her to relinquish her guardianship of the stairs for one morning. She still watched him suspiciously from the landing, however, and Jim was careful not to do anything too human or dangerous, at least until he was out of sight. Then, he burst into Spock’s office as loudly as possible, holding his large box in front of him like a shield.

“This is a chessboard!” Jim announced cheerfully, brandishing the box from side to side. Spock didn’t jump like he’d hoped, probably because T’Pring had warned him by the house comm link, that rat.

“I see.” Spock obligingly set aside the datapadd he had been using, and stood to clear a spot on the overcrowded desk. “What is its purpose?” He asked, after Jim had dramatically heaved the box onto one corner, and opened it to reveal the black and white checkered squares.

“You play chess on it.” Spock waited. “Chess is a game.”

Spock looked exasperated, and he sat in his chair reluctantly while Jim unpacked the pieces.

“I do not know how to play any Terran games, Captain.”

Jim wanted to ask about that, he really did— _Didn’t your mother ever teach you any_? But he didn’t, because Spock never brought her up in the rare few times they spoke about personal matters, and Jim was loath to bring up bad memories, not when he was about to teach Spock his  _favorite_  (okay, his  _only_ ) board game.

“I’m here to teach you. A trade, remember?”

“I see,” Spock repeated, looking doubtful. Jim didn’t pay him any attention other than to be surprised that he actually looked good in green, rather than drowned by it. The man was a clothes horse, and Jim would have been amused by that, except it was helping him to keep track of the days of the Vulcan week—a different color for every day. Rinse and repeat.

“What is the purpose of this game?” Spock leaned over the flat board, obviously staving off curiosity and being mostly unsuccessful. Jim wished he’d been able to get a hold of the 3D version, but unfortunately, Jim’s new hobby wasn’t that complicated, not yet.

“To beat the other person, by making it so this piece—the king—can’t move without being killed. See, this piece can only move like this, and this piece can only move like this!” Jim explained in a rush, demonstrating where necessary with the king, the rook, and the knight. Spock followed his actions with an impressive level of focus, and when Jim finally removed his hands and provided Spock with the white pieces, he wasn’t surprised to see Spock duplicate his motions exactly.

“Intriguing.” High praise from a Vulcan, and especially one as demanding as Spock.

“Wanna play?” Jim asked, grinning from ear to ear at the thought of an actual person to play the game with, and Spock did exactly as he’d hoped: embraced it.

“It is always beneficial to learn new cultures, Captain.”

They played in complete silence, both men focused on the board before them with the concentration born of competition. While Jim would have liked to say it was an easy game—after all, Spock was completely new at this—the truth was that Vulcan minds were quick, efficient, and almost admirable ( _almost_ ). Jim beat him thoroughly in the end, but there had been a moment or two when he had to backtrack his plan, rethink his strategy, and the abrupt recalculations had almost made him vulnerable.

There had also been a time or two where their moves might have led to their hands touching, but Jim—because he was learning—deliberately avoided the touches. Spock looked alternately surprised and relieved, and Jim considered that a victory, almost more than the  _actual_  victory that he received when Spock tipped over his king in defeat.

“Fascinating.” Spock’s eyes were still dark and focused, and Jim propped his face on his hands, heart thumping quietly in his chest while he waited.

“Fun, huh?”

Spock nodded, the action not even reluctant. Victory indeed.

“Most challenging. Of course, I suspect your win will not be as easy next time.”

“Next time?” Jim wondered if all Vulcans could read human expressions enough to recognize ‘joy;’ he was sure Spock could.

“I see no reason this cannot be part of our regular lessons,” Spock replied easily, and Jim did the sitting approximation of a fist pump in the air.

“Awesome!” Spock nodded and stood, moving around the room, and Jim remembered. “So…what were you going to teach me today?”

Spock showed him the book he held in his hands, and by opening the book, Jim could recognize neat columns of neat figures—math.

“I was going to teach you about economics, Captain. Specifically, economics in their variation across cultures.”

Jim felt his expression fade, quicker than he would have liked.

“Can’t wait,” Jim responded, without enthusiasm. He waited for the lecture to begin as he repacked his board, and he was surprised to see Spock watching him. He was more surprised when he saw Spock set the book aside, and retake his previous seat.

“Under the circumstances, however…perhaps one more game would not go amiss.”

Jim obligingly laid out the board a second time, and he didn’t comment when one game became two became three, or when they spent their entire afternoon playing in silence. In his eyes, it was the best interaction he and a Vulcan had ever had.

********

Over the course of the next two weeks, Jim and Spock spoke of many things, subjects that were sometimes culturally significant and sometimes simply entertaining. Spock tended to keep purely to subjects that would be useful in a knowledge of politics—things like economics, system structures, and how not to offend a high priest—but Jim, when asked, liked to demonstrate Earth culture through anecdotes, hoping that Spock’s sharp mind would pick up the lesson without it being explicitly taught in the Vulcan way. Mostly he did (although Spock seemed to have a curious hold-up with idioms) and whenever he didn’t, Jim became convinced it was because humans and Vulcans  _were_  fundamentally different. Their brains just didn’t work the same, and in the same sort of way that Jim could never see himself being able to rattle off the answer to a complicated math problem in just a single second, he could never see Spock being able to analyze the value of a movie with an open ending. They just didn’t function on the same wavelength, and so Jim came to expect certain things from Spock. Reason. Clarity. Tranquility.

It just figured that as soon as he got into a routine, Spock would do something to surprise him, and he did: exactly eighteen days after their first lesson, Jim walked into Spock’s office expecting books and their chess game they had left the previous evening, and he found all of the furniture pushed to one side of the room, the rug removed to reveal bare wood flooring, and Spock standing in the center of it all with his robe folded neatly over one chair.

Jim swallowed because the other option was a bad pickup line or something stupid like “I  _knew_  you had a kickass figure!” Didn’t stop the thought, of course, but Spock wasn’t totally telepathic, so Jim considered that fine.

“What’s all this?” he asked instead, gesturing to their surroundings with a broad sweep of his hand.

“This, Captain, is a practical demonstration on cultural greetings.”

“Like what?” Jim looked around, not entirely certain he wanted to learn a greeting ceremony when Spock was dressed in a simple shirt and pants and the image would be burned on his brain  _forever_ , but Spock surprised him. Again.

“Like the Andorian  _feragai._ ”

Jim blinked; suddenly the rearrangement made sense, even if the reason was something clearly out of left field.

“Dance? You’re teaching me about  _dance_?” And if Spock really meant the Andorian  _feragai_ , it was close dancing, bodies aligned, hands wandering.

“Is there a problem?” Spock  _would_  ask that.

“Not at all.” Jim couldn’t wait, and he wasn’t surprised to find that as soon as Spock’s stepped towards him and held out his hands, neatly tucked away in gloves, Jim’s body shifted without his conscious decision, hips tilting provocatively. Spock didn’t appear to notice.

“First, we will attempt the  _feragai_ ,” Spock intoned, and the starting stance was applied, with both hands together. Jim was suddenly grateful for those videos that his Mom had tried to keep him from watching as a kid (of course, in said videos the dancing quickly turned into porn, and he doubted that would happen here.) His vague memories of the one called  _Lissan’s Lunar Delights_  led him well enough through the basic following moves of the 8-step Andorian equivalent of a waltz.

Of course, it was awkward without music and playing the role of the shorter partner—Jim might not have been the tallest of men, but he did have a few inches on most of his dance partners, on the rare times he’d actually danced—but considering the slight offense of the situation was balanced by how warm Spock was, how long his body, how easily he moved…Jim couldn’t say he minded  _that_  much.

“You appear to perform the steps adeptly,” Spock said simply after they had circled the room several times, and Jim grinned.

“You’re one to talk! Since when do Vulcans dance?”

“Vulcans have always danced, Captain. Sentient beings do such things. Now, reverse position.”

Jim did so, and he couldn’t say he minded leading, even though he felt overall weird to attempt some of the turns with someone just a smidge taller than himself. They managed, primarily because Spock had one of the greatest recovery instincts he’d ever  _seen_  when something went wrong, almost always turning the missteps into something that appeared natural and intentional.

Jim couldn’t help but whistle when they paused again.

“You’re really pretty good. Have you tried any Earth dances?” Jim was willing to bet “no;” if Spock hadn’t learned any human games, why the hell would he know any dances?

“Such as?”

“Salsa? Tango?”Jim kept his voice innocent, hoping Spock was at least unfamiliar with the erotic nature of those two.

“No, I have not,” Spock admitted reluctantly. Jim wondered if some of his intent was leaking through, and he quickly released Spock’s hands.

“Well, here, let me show you; this is my favorite part.”

Spock held out his hands again, clearly waiting for a fairly basic move, and Jim took the opportunity to drag him close and dip him. Truth be told, it was the  _only_  thing Jim had ever actually learned in a dancing situation—the fault of his brother’s dancing enthusiast ex-wife—and it was some variation on a wedding dip, not executed perfectly. Still, the look on Spock’s face was worth it, even though he suspected he’d have sore arms the next day, because Spock weighed a damn  _ton_.

When Jim helpfully straightened, Spock had gone from looking surprised to interested.

“Interesting. How are you certain the one holding you will not drop you?”

Jim shrugged; he’d never thought about it, not really.

“It’s a trust thing. You know— _trust_.”

Spock raised one eyebrow at the emphasis, but didn’t comment. Jim wondered if his voice sounded bitter.

“I see. May I?”

Jim thought it was only fair, and when Spock dipped him—less elegantly—he took the opportunity to notice what a terrible angle it was for, well, anything. Still, it was nice…right up until Spock dropped him.

Apparently Jim was going to wake up tomorrow with a sore  _ass_ too, and not in a good way either.

“Ouch! What the hell?” Jim scowled at Spock from where he’d landed on the floor, and Spock held out a hand that Jim quickly pushed away. The second time it was offered, Jim accepted, but only because Spock looked just slightly apologetic about the whole thing.

“Forgive me, Captain; I appear to have lost my grip.”

“Yeah, well, don’t do it again.”

Spock nodded, but this time when he attempted the “dip,” Jim’s entire body was stiff. They straightened, and Jim had never felt so awkward  _in his life_.

“It appears it is difficult to trust someone who has already let you fall,” Spock stated needlessly, and Jim glared at him.

“With good reason!” Spock waited, and realization—unwelcome—dawned on Jim abruptly. “Hey…you’re still teaching me about politics, aren’t you?”

“Correct. In addition to knowing the proper way to greet another species, it is equally important that you remember that Vulcan has many enemies besides humans, enemies that you will have to be able to recognize. Hopefully, prior to them ‘dropping’ you.”

Jim dusted himself off as an excuse to look at the floor. It figured it was just another lesson in a long list of them, and it figured that he’d forgotten.

“If you’re trying to teach me to be suspicious, trust me, I didn’t need any help.”

“I am not trying to teach you anything except caution,” Spock said quietly, turning away to retrieve the furniture he had moved for this lesson. Apparently, their dancing was over. “You appear to be a very impulsive man, Captain, and impulse has been known to hurt those who fall victim to it.”

Jim snorted and helped Spock roll out the rug again, covering the hard— _hard_ —wood with sturdy fabric almost regretfully.

“Do you read philosophy books in your spare time, or something? Where does all this come from?” Jim asked, breath puffing out hard as he attempted to drag the table back to its original location, watching as Spock made easy work of the remaining chairs and desk in silence. Jim thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he did.

“Most of it came from my mother.”

Jim swallowed, and his voice came out deliberately casual when he replied.

“Smart lady. Wish I could’ve met her.”

Spock looked at him intently for several minutes, and then he appeared to be finished, because he didn’t so much as glance at Jim again afterwards.

“I believe she would have liked you, Captain.” The words were spoken softly into silence, and Jim almost didn’t hear them. He  _wished_  he hadn’t heard them; he never knew what to do with parents who actually liked him, especially when he knew exactly what his relationship with their child was going to be. Quick, easy…temporary.

At least, he consoled himself, he would never end up breaking Spock’s mother’s heart. Spock’s either, he was happy to conclude; Vulcans just didn’t worry about things like that. And even if they finished with each other and their current almost-friendly attitude went up in flames, there was always the knowledge that they’d both be fine. Just fine.

Still, Jim couldn’t entirely cover up his discomfort at the mention of Spock’s mother, and he knew it came through.

“Chess?” He asked lightly, and Spock shook his head, revealing the tome he held in one hand. A goddamn  _tome_ , as old as the word itself.

“No, Captain. First, we must discuss relations with other species.”

Jim accepted the change of subject easily, hoping absurdly that the issue of  _parents_  and  _family_  wouldn’t come up ever again.

********

Jim’s third interview was in the hottest part of the day, at approximately 1100 hours; this annoyed him, as it meant he went from his bed to his shower to his interview, with none of the luxuries he had unfortunately become accustomed to over the past month or so. No sleeping in. No leisurely breakfast. No conversation with Bones who—thanks to his attempts to manage his legal battles on Earth—was operating on a completely different sleeping schedule. No lessons and no chess with Spock. It made him cranky as hell to have to start his day without even the barest “essentials,” and when he walked into a basement room made chilly by his wet hair, he couldn’t help but scowl as he spotted the slickly charming Vulcan from their introductory brunch.

“Hi. You’re…?”

“Tolkar, Captain Kirk. How are you this morning?”

Jim started; that was certainly the first time a Vulcan had ever asked a purely polite question with such emotional connotations, but he was too annoyed by his short morning—unrealistically annoyed, really—to be impressed.

“Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

Tolkar raised an eyebrow, and when Jim stared at him impatiently, he actually removed a compact mirror from his pocket and adjusted his hair.

“In such a hurry, Captain?” Tolkar asked as he closed the small contraption with a snap, and Jim was more annoyed.

“You have no idea. You get a man used to his lax schedule and then try to take it away, you’re going to see fireworks. Start the recording.”

“Very well.” Tolkar flicked the on switch on the familiar box, and picked up the loose paper in front of him. “If you will allow me to begin—”

“God, not with those god-awful questions. Isn’t there a happy medium between painfully boring and invasive?” Jim had forgotten his questions; hell, he didn’t bring them anymore. Didn’t even know where they were.

“Not likely. Besides, these are scientifically-determined questions for estimating compatibility.”

“And you’d know? What are you, an actor? An artist?” Something suave and irritating and based on looks or insanity, he just knew it. Except, apparently, Tolkar was more than he appeared.

“I am a mathematician, Captain, and thank you for asking.”

Jim rolled his eyes.

“Sure. Don’t mention it.”

“May I begin?”

Tolkar picked up the page again, and with nothing better to do, Jim just waved him on.

“Knock yourself out.”

“What is the origin of your name?”

That one was easy, and something Jim even had a stock answer for.

“My mother liked it,” he said shortly. Tolkar waited, and Jim sighed. “And yours?”

“I am named for a chief from the southern part of Vulcan. He ruled his people well for many years prior to the unification of the planet, although he unfortunately descended into insanity in his later years.”

Jim, who had been feigning disinterest up to that point, found himself frowning.

“Why the hell are you named after a crazy tribe leader?”

“Because, Captain, he is also my grandfather from several generations previous. Strictly speaking, I am the eleventh Tolkar in my family.”

Jim snorted again—good, a “family traditions” man. He hated that.

“Great. Next.”

If Jim had thought his first interview was awkward, this one was worse—unfailingly polite and disinterested, because Tolkar looked like he wouldn’t spit on Jim if he were on fire and Jim could barely keep his eyes open and focused on such a classically attractive face—God, he was almost  _bland_  to look at. It was an hour and a half of agony, and Jim found himself hoping that his next interview was with someone who hated him on sight, just to liven it up a bit.

“Spock? I don’t get it!” he yelled into the empty office he had darted off to as soon as the recorder had been shut off. And sure enough, Spock popped out of his bedroom, wearing clean slate gray over his dark trousers.

“What don’t you understand, Captain?”

Jim jerked a thumb over his shoulder, like Spock could somehow see through walls and across hundreds of feet to the paper to blame.

“Those questions. I mean, Vulcans are smart, right? Then why don’t they have things on there like…like…your opinion on sports! Or what you think of a movie, or a play! Or, I dunno, how about your opinion on the entire human-Vulcan Unification thing?”

Spock waited until he finished, and upon Jim’s last annoyed word, he began to assemble the chess board.

“Captain, those questions have been scientifically-determined—”

“For estimating compatibility. Yeah, I got that. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to prove it to me.”

Spock looked at him in contemplation for several seconds, body frozen in its half-bent pose. Jim wished he wasn’t wearing an undershirt.

“Very well, Captain. What is the origin of your name?”

“Huh?” Jim drew a blank; hadn’t they gone over this before?

“Please answer the question.”

“Well…my mother’s dad was named James and my father’s dad was named Tiberius.”

Spock nodded quietly with his explanation, and began to place the pieces. Jim was surprised to see white on the side facing him, but not terribly; after all, he’d lost the last game.

“I estimate, then, that your family is very aware of and appreciative of family ties. Most likely, you are as well.”

It was actually a pretty good estimation, but that meant very little; he’d been talking Spock’s ear off for  _weeks_.

“So?”

“So, Captain, how did you answer that question when asked earlier today?”

Jim shrugged and sat heavily, pushing one white pawn at random because—truth be told—Spock was currently more interesting than the still marble pieces in front of him.

“I told him my mother liked it.”

Spock mirrored his move, seemingly without thought. Jim barely noticed.

“Precisely. Your answers and the way they differ from person to person are an adequate test of how at ease you are with someone, even someone you have just met. Your tone, body language, and interest are equally as important, if not moreso, which is why there is a section on the back to account for personal preferences.”

That…actually made a lot of sense. Tons. Buckets. Jim wondered why they hadn’t just  _said_  that in the first place, and then figured they probably had; he just hadn’t been listening.

“It really is scientific, huh? Why do they take so long between interviews, then?”

Spock moved his knight—a very logical second move—and it was pressed to the board with a solid  _clack_.

“My estimation, Captain, is that you did not follow the questions they knew how to analyze, and as such, had more difficulty reaching a conclusion.”

Jim wondered if he should be insulted, but he considered the loss of Spock’s piece—the  _first_  loss—as compensation enough for the tiny offense.

“Well, I suppose that’s true.” They played in silence for a few minutes, and when they reached a standstill where the moves became more complex, he looked up. “What is the origin of your name, anyway?”

He had asked that question before, but curiously enough, Spock actually seemed to want to answer it this time.

“I am named after a relatively unknown philosopher born nine hundred years ago. He attempted to implement a movement across the planet which unfortunately was not successful, and to this day, he is remembered for very little.”

Jim wondered if it was just him, or if all Vulcans were named after something incredibly depressing.

“And that ‘little’ is?”

“A single maxim. ‘If you celebrate nothing else, celebrate your differences.’”

In light of Spock’s hybrid nature—the  _only_  hybrid, unless Jim missed his guess—it was perhaps the kindest thing a parent could have done for their child, and it brought a smile to his face.

“Your mother?”

“My father,” Spock responded, surprising him.

“He loved you, didn’t he? I mean, he must not have thought you were…less because your mother was human?”

“That would be irrational, as he is the one who mated with her.” Jim just waited, waited until they had each moved twice and Spock seemed to realize that the question was not going away. “Yes,” he finally answered quietly. “I believe he did.”

Jim changed the subject quickly, before it could get awkward between them.  _Again._

“You know, on Earth, we have a different question for determining compatibility. Well, lots actually. Cats or dogs, Coke or Pepsi, Cardassian Sunrises or whiskey…hey, what’s your favorite color?”

Spock looked at him curiously.

“I do not have one. Such a preference is…impractical.”

Jim wasn’t buying it.

“Come on, you must have one!”

Spock just looked at him for a long time, until he seemed to see something that he was looking for in Jim’s face.

“Which color is your favorite?”

Jim grinned, and waved the question away. That, at least, was something he’d thought about before; after all, he’d been asked it enough times.

“Brown. Easy.”

“Brown?” Spock sounded unnecessarily disappointed.

“Yeah. I mean… it’s really…natural, you know? Before things get all dressed up, they’re brown.”

Jim nodded with finality, and Spock looked at him like he was a child.

“’Things’ also begin as green, black, red, blue, yellow, or any other variant of any other color.”

 “Hey, I didn’t say it was some scientifically determined thing! Now come on, what’s yours? If your life depended on it and you had to choose a favorite color, what would it be?”

“If I was forced to declare a preference, I would choose…blue.” Spock flicked his eyes up, met Jim’s, and then quickly returned to examining the chess board. “Yes, blue.”

“Blue?” Spock nodded, and Jim shrugged. He wouldn’t have guessed, but it wasn’t like the subject was up for debate. Except, of course, something went wrong with his  _mouth_.

“You look really good in blue. Official. Elegant. You should wear it more often.” Where the hell had  _that_  come from?

Spock looked at him in confusion, and Jim understood perfectly, aware that he was gaping at his own response.

“Blue?” Spock repeated, doubtfully, and Jim nodded.

“Yeah.”

Of course, Jim realized the conversation was inane, but he wasn’t sure how to stop it. He was staring at Spock across the chessboard and his mouth was moving but no words were coming out, and Spock was looking back at him, just as intense. Too intense.

The moment—whatever  _the hell_  it had been—disappeared quickly, and Jim and Spock finished their game in silence, neither of them so much as looking at each other for the rest of the afternoon.


	8. Chapter 8

By silent but mutual agreement, Jim and Spock didn’t see each other for several days. To Jim, there was nothing strange about it; after all, they had been essentially living in each other’s pockets for weeks now, and the result was that their interactions were now uncomfortable, tinged with the awkwardness that was sure to result when you knew someone too well, but yet not well enough. To Jim, it was a normal progression of friendship; he and Bones had gone through the same thing, needing a break, and those few others he would consider friends if not close ones from his time as a ship’s captain—his crazy main engineer, his fencing navigator, his prickly communications officer—had all been the same. It was normal, and if Jim thought (in the far, mostly unacknowledged reaches of his mind) that Spock was somehow  _different_ , he pretty much ignored that. Well, as much as he could.

After waking up for the third day in a row, knowing he wasn’t going to see Spock and knowing that he wasn’t going to play chess (he’d left his board there) or learn anything new (by himself? Not likely), he found he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

He missed Spock. Like, ridiculously so; Jim didn’t think he could remember missing Bones this much or any other friend, and while he could remember missing a girlfriend like this, he attributed that mainly to sex withdrawal, which—he felt he should note—was not the case with Spock. He just…missed his company, and the knowledge that he probably would miss his company until the  _weirdness_  wore off made him groan aloud.

In response, Bones threw a pillow at him. It was the first movement Jim had seen from his side of the room in weeks.

“Dammit, Jim!” he bellowed, the sound endearingly groggy. “Stop being a waffling wuss and go do it already!”

Jim rolled over on his side, staring at the lump on the opposite bed.

“Do what?”

“Whatever has you groaning at least once a minute at bloody ten in the morning! And, by God, if it’s a person you’re thinking of, I don’t want to hear about it.”

Jim just groaned again for effect, and wasn’t surprised when another pillow came flying his way.

“It is a person, Bones—”

“What did I  _just say_?”

“—but not like you think.”

There was silence, and then the fluffy down comforter—unnecessary in this heat but almost essential in the overpowering air conditioning—was tossed off of Bones’ head, and he sat up, his hair pointing every possible direction.

“No?” It was amazing how he still managed to sound skeptical and smarter-than-Jim, even with dark shadows under his eyes.

“No. Bones, I think I…made a friend.”

“I’m excited for you.” It was muffled by the pillow Bones had suddenly slapped over his face, obviously considering the matter over. Jim kept talking, almost to himself, staring at the intricate Vulcan carvings on the wall as he did so.

“What does it mean when you miss someone immediately, and for days? I mean, that’s normal for friends, isn’t it?”

There was a thump of a pillow being discarded, and when Jim turned back, Bones was staring at him again.

“Sure. Weird for you, but sure.”

Jim nodded deliberately, and rolled back over.

“Thought so.”

Bones’ sigh was loud in the dim room, and Jim wasn’t surprised to feel the bed dip with the extra weight of a tired country doctor.

“What’s on your mind, Jim? I feel like I haven’t seen you for weeks, and heaven knows someone should be keeping an eye on you.”

Jim rolled his eyes automatically.

“Thanks.” There was no annoyance in the word, and Jim sighed again.“I’m just…thinking.”

“Thinking?”

“Yeah.” There was silence, enough that Jim wondered if Bones had drifted off to sleep, or somehow left without him knowing. “How are you, Bones?” It was a question long overdue, and Jim felt a twinge of guilt.

“Besides the fact that Jocelyn keeps blocking my hearing? Fine and dandy.”

Jim was fully aware in an instant, and he rolled to stare at his friend. Bones deliberately avoided his eyes.

“Your hearing?”

“Yeah. At this rate, I’ll be an old man and Joanna will be a lady before I see her, even over the damn comm link.”

“Bones, that sucks.” What was worse, although Jim wouldn’t say it, was that Bones sounded so resigned, like he’d given up. It could only mean one thing. “The divorce went through, then?”

“Last week,” Bones confirmed with a shrug that was too casual. “I’m officially single these days.”

“Should we be celebrating?” Jim asked cautiously, and he wasn’t surprised when Bones laughed, the sound caustic.

“ _Hell_   _no_.”

“Alright then.” Abruptly, Jim pushed his own covers aside and got to his feet. “Get up and I’ll buy you a so-sorry-for-your-divorce breakfast.”

Bones looked at him in faint amusement.

“Jim, all the food here is free.”

“Then we’ll find a restaurant,” Jim countered, undeterred. “Come on, it can’t be that hard.”

“Aren’t we supposed to stay here? Near the compound?”

“No one said that,” Jim said, hoping that hadn’t been one of the rules he’d ignored and hoping that his enthusiasm was at least enough to pull Bones from his current stupor. “Come on, let’s go!”

Bones grumbled, as was his nature, but true to their friendship, he followed Jim with relatively few honest complaints. Once they were dressed in their best outside gear and armed to the teeth with emergency desert supplies, they left the compound to stomp across the red sands, mostly in silence. Jim didn’t know where they were headed since he’d never considered exploring the actual city himself, but the direction was easy enough to decide, and the walk was pretty much what he was used to.

Well, except for one thing. For reasons he didn’t care to analyze, when they approached Spock’s building, Jim was careful to walk around the back.

Bones, in between curses about the heat, glanced between him and the building strangely.

“Aren’t we taking the long way around?”

Jim shrugged, and adjusted his thin hood to block nonexistent dust.

“No, it’s fine. Trust me.”

Bones didn’t comment after that, at least not until they approached the bustle of the main city, and Jim was thankful. Jim—who had seen large cities before, now and again—couldn’t help but whistle anyway, the memories of their arrival not doing the place justice, and he had just resigned himself to wandering aimlessly in scorching heat when he spotted a large holo-map. After some argument with Bones about what they wanted to eat—specifically, try Vulcan food or attempt to find a place that catered to more alien fare—they decided on a small, upper scale eatery just two blocks away.

And because Jim was nothing if not a good friend, he kept up a running conversation of meaningless topics throughout the walk, never once touching on Bones’ divorce or his own developing concerns about marriage. And throughout a meal of wholesome bread baked fresh and chopped greens in a heavy cream sauce that even Jim could admit wasn’t bad, he made sure to keep the conversation as far from family as possible.

Bones wasn’t fooled.

“I’m not going to have some sort of breakdown, Jim,” Bones said, voice amused, and he sipped a bright red beverage that Jim had heard nicknamed “sweet cinnamon juice.” “You don’t have to stay away from all meaningful topics like some sort of plague.”

“Maybe not,” Jim agreed, slightly relieved to find his concerns unnecessary, “but I’d still rather talk about things that don’t sour the day.”

“Okay. How about we talk about your friend? Male or female?”

“Male. You’ve met him.”

“Yeah? How’d that happen? He must be Vulcan, but I can’t remember you ever wanting to  _hang out_  with any of them.”

“It’s actually a funny story—” But before Jim could tell it, Bones held up his hand, peering over Jim’s shoulder with his eyes narrowed.

“Hold on, Jim. Is that…Finnegan? What’s he doing there?”

Jim turned and saw what Bones was talking about in the larger restaurant next door; at a cozy table with a pale yellow tablecloth sat someone who—if not the Finnegan who had been blissfully out of their life for the past few weeks—certainly a close lookalike.

“I don’t even know, Bones. Eating?”

“In that restaurant? I’m pretty sure you need clout to get in there,” Bones said doubtfully, pointing to a sign in Vulcan along the wall, helpfully translated as “no aliens allowed” in four different languages. Jim just shrugged, thinking—like himself—that Finnegan must have expanded his horizons where Vulcans were concerned.

“Maybe he found a friend himself,” Jim theorized, “or a lover. Maybe he knows the owner. I have no idea, Bones, and we really need to do something about your tendency towards gossip.”

Bones looked disgruntled, and he deliberately looked away from the window. Jim smiled, amused.

“It’s not gossip. I’m just trying to rationalize why Finnegan and that familiar guy would be sitting together.”

“What guy?” Jim asked, curious, and he looked again. Now that Bones mentioned it, there was a Vulcan sitting across from Finnegan, his long braid distinct and easily labeling him a politician. Jim looked harder.

He was wearing blue.

“Don’t know. One of the Unifiers?”

The Vulcan turned for a brief second, and Jim saw his face. His heart gave an unsteady thump in his chest, and then he looked away.

“Spock. That’s S’haile Spock.”

Bones looked surprised, and Jim didn’t blame him.

“Oh? You do remember their names, then.”

 _No, not really_. Jim stared at the table, and at the food in front of him that suddenly felt too heavy for his stomach, too Vulcan for his tastes. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn he was going to be sick.

“Jim? Hey, Jim, are you alright?”

Jim looked up, blinked slowly, and forced a grin. Funny, when they had been coming so easily earlier.

“Yeah, why?”

“You just looked sucker-punched for a second there, kid.” Bones waited, but Jim didn’t know what to say. “It’s okay, you know; I’m sure Finnegan isn’t wasting his time bad-mouthing you, or anything. They probably have better things on their minds.”

Normally, Jim would have made a joke about those “things.” Now, though, he thought he might punch whoever tried.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I gotta say, though, I didn’t think Finnegan was that popular with anyone, much less had a Vulcan friend.”

“Spock’s probably humoring him.”

Bones looked incredulous.

“A Vulcan?”

“Spock…humors everybody.” And that was the kicker, wasn’t it? Spock was unfailingly polite and tactful, even with someone as immune to political correctness as Jim. Finnegan—who, let’s be honest, probably wanted something—was probably easy to deal with in comparison. Probably took less time, and didn’t make things awkward. Probably was even charming, for a while.

Jim was standing before he realized it, but he didn’t know why. What was he going to do? Storm over to the next restaurant and demand an explanation for why Spock was  _eating_  with someone else? It was stupid. Although… _Jim_  had never shared a meal with Spock. Not in over a month. Heck, more than that—Spock had never gone anywhere with him, never been seen in public with him except for their one interview.

“Bones.” The sound was almost raspy, and Jim tried again. “Bones, let’s go back.”

Whatever comments Bones might have had were thankfully stifled when he saw Jim’s expression, and they left without a word. Bones even paid, despite Jim’s earlier offer. And as they walked back, Bones rested a comforting hand on his shoulder, one long pat.

It was times like this that Jim remembered why Bones was his best friend.

********

“Captain? Captain, are you alright?”

Jim was jerked out of his thoughts by the slightly impatient tone, and for a moment, he forgot where he was. The lapse in reality didn’t remain for long, though, as the Unifier he was currently interviewing with—Tolen? Taken?—looked none too happy with him. Although the words he spoke were concerned, Jim wasn’t fooled; after all, it was hard to stay interested in someone when—from the very beginning—they made it clear they found something else more appealing. And considering Jim had been ignoring him for the better part of an hour, he thought Tolen was doing pretty well.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You are certain? You appear to be…distracted.” And boy, he even sounded annoyed; Jim would have said he was being unfair, but the truth was that Tolen seemed like one of those classically beautiful people who were so used to getting attention that they were unsure how to  _earn_  it. It made him uninteresting at best, and really, Jim’s mind would have wandered anyway, even if it hadn’t had somewhere specific to go.

Mainly, the subject of the Vulcan he hadn’t seen (well, spoken to) in over a week.

“Sorry. Just thinking about…well, things.”

“I see.” Interestingly enough, Tolen reached over and flicked the recording to “off.” Jim raised an eyebrow, wondering if they were done, but no; Tolen began speaking.

“What are you thinking about, Captain? If you are interested in a particular subject, I’m certain I can help, and then we can continue our interview.”

Jim wondered if it was that simple, and decided it wasn’t. He’d actually had the time and inclination to ask around about his fourth interview, and the word was that Tolen was an artist, and with not nearly as much of a depth of knowledge as his more scientifically oriented peers.

“I don’t think you can help, actually.”

Tolen looked at him with very serious eyes.

“Captain, I may not be able to assist you in matters of the mind, but I am well-versed in the matters of my peers.”

Jim boggled, and he would have laughed, except he wasn’t in a laughing mood.

“Gossip? You think I’m concerned with  _gossip_?”

A single dark eyebrow rose on Tolen’s forehead.

“Are you not? Forgive me if I assumed humans were interested in relations with others.”

Jim scowled.

“ _Fine_.” Tolen waited while Jim hesitated, almost unable to believe that he was going to ask the question. “Have you heard about any…rumors concerning Vulcans and humans being, er, intimate? Close, you know?”

Tolen looked surprised, and slightly devious; it was consistent with every gossip-monger Jim had ever encountered in any species, and he made a note to make sure that under no circumstances would he end up with him.

“Yes, Captain, I have. Sources vary, of course, about who the pairing is, but apparently one human and one Vulcan are regularly seen dining together in the main city. And…other things.”

“One human and one Vulcan.”  _Not Spock_. It wasn’t even an option; Spock couldn’t be the one. Couldn’t be. Except…his mother was human, and Jim couldn’t think of any of the other cold-fish Vulcans he knew willingly rolling around with anyone, much less a  _human_. But  _Spock_ …Spock had shared a kiss with a man he didn’t know in a garden late at night, when anyone could have walked by. Spock actually  _had_  been seen having dinner with Finnegan. Spock, who had shown no interest in speaking to Jim again for days.

“Is the information adequate? May we continue now?”

Jim barely heard him.

“No. I have to leave.”

He did so, only vaguely aware that he had run out on his own interview. And he would have felt bad about that, except by the time Jim had hit the outer doors of the compound, his determination had become anger, and the anger had become something else.

Jim had spent over a month with Spock, learning his mannerisms, enjoying his company and knowledge. Over a month, and Spock had been  _seeing_  other people? Even if the rumors were exaggerated or not concerning Spock at all, the Spock Jim knew was always about keeping the playing field level, and kissing only one Unifier didn’t fit with that. Maybe he’d kissed more. Maybe he’d kissed them all. Maybe he’d done…other things. The fact that Jim had no right to feel anger over what Spock did with his spare time crossed his mind, but for once, Jim didn’t try to analyze why the reaction was as overpowering as it was.

By the time he reached the front door of Spock’s building, he was almost spitting mad. And when he knocked on the door—loudly, with raps too hard to be excused away—he counted each second it took to open, each instant fueling his imagination.

When T’Pring answered, her body perfectly blocking the doorway, Jim attempted to shove past her, ignoring his raising that said you were supposed to treat girls  _nice_. He was surprised when he ended up on his ass, and he stared up at her for a moment, surprise briefly overrunning anger.

 “Captain, Vulcan males have three times your strength, and Vulcan females nearly the same,” she explained, voice cool. “You will not get past me.”

Jim scowled and stood, brushing himself off.

“Let me see Spock.” A week ago, the order would have been unnecessary, with Jim always being allowed if not welcomed. Something had obviously changed.

“Spock is not seeing anyone at the moment,” came her familiar stock response, and Jim saw red.

“Why? Is he  _busy_?”

“Yes. Come back another time.”

 _Like hell!_  The door was slammed in his face before Jim could do much more than glare at her, but he was undeterred. His misspent youth had instilled in him a great amount of knowledge when it came to getting where nobody wanted him, and one such bit of information was how to get in the backdoor. “Backdoor,” of course, meaning second-story window in this case.

Scaling a wall made of sandstone was difficult; doing it quietly was nearly impossible, but Jim was determined, and so he managed to hop from the taller side fence (a security hazard; he’d have to say something about that) to a balcony to a window with relatively few scrapes. Getting inside was a bit more difficult—because Spock was no fool and seemed to maintain a decent security system—but Jim hadn’t been called “the terror of Iowa” for no reason; he made it past the glass and the laser beams. Easily.

It did of course occur to him that he was breaking and entering, something that would doom at least Jim’s role in this alliance if Spock truly took offense, but Jim felt it was justified. He just wanted to  _talk_  to him, to get answers before he went crazy with the possibilities running through his head. He crept down the hallway, sneaking up the last flight of stairs, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t catch Spock doing anything except sitting at his desk.

It didn’t go exactly as he’d planned. Spock wasn’t in his office, and when Jim darted to the adjoining bedroom, words of recrimination already on his lips, he wasn’t expecting to see Spock leaning heavily against his bedpost, panting and pale, and swaying.

The anger Jim had been feeling disappeared instantly.

“Spock!” He jumped out to balance him, and Spock didn’t appear to notice, clenching onto Jim’s support without protest or so much as a single “how  _the hell_  did you get in here?” When Jim lowered him down onto the bedspread, Spock just groaned, his entire body shaking, and burning like not even Vulcan weather could. It was pitiful, and Jim made certain he was resting squarely in the middle of the large bed before he even let go enough to pull back and look at his face.

“Spock?”

A heavy breath was his answer, and Jim touched his forehead hesitantly; he felt like he was on fire.

“Hang on, okay buddy? I’ll be right back!”

Jim hurried to the bathroom, operating on instinct for human sicknesses, and as he wet a cloth, he could smell the sickly sweet smell of vomit. He flushed the toilet twice for good measure and hurried back to the bedroom, pressing the cool cloth to Spock’s skin with gentle pats. It warmed under his hand, alarmingly quickly, but then Spock opened his eyes and blinked at him.

“Captain?” The word was weak and raspy and almost painful, and Jim was glad he looked away; he didn’t think he could have handled seeing the matching expression in perfect clarity.

“Yeah. Sorry, your guard dog didn’t say you were sick.” T’Pring should have; Jim would have left him alone, honest, but then Spock would probably have fallen. He supposed it was a good thing he was suspicious, even if the end result was that he now felt guilty as all hell.

“I was under the impression that you no longer wished to continue our meetings.”

And yeah, the guilt wasn’t going away soon.

“What? No, never.” Jim let go of his washcloth when it became almost as hot as he could handle, and he ran back to the bathroom, cooling it again. Spock hadn’t so much as moved an inch by the time he returned. “Jesus, Spock, you’re burning up. You need a doctor.”

Spock waved the statement aside.

“No, I do not. It will pass.”

Jim doubted that, but he yielded; the cloth appeared to be helping, at least a little bit.

“Maybe so, but you still need to see a doctor. Being sick so often isn’t normal.” Hell, Spock had been sick three times that Jim knew of in the past two months; vague knowledge of Vulcan anatomy or not, Jim knew that spoke of something serious, more than just a faulty immune system.

But Spock, interestingly enough, just sighed, his breath hot on Jim’s wrist.

“I have seen a doctor, Captain. Many times.”

He sounded tired, and Jim was alarmed.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep, alright?”

Spock huffed, and shifted to lean more heavily on one side. Jim remembered Spock’s comments about Vulcan ears, and so when presented with the side of his head, he instead used the cloth to wet the hair on his brow.

“Captain, I have been through this many times. I will not enter a comatose state if I close my eyes.”

“Positive about that?” Spock was silent for the fraction of a second Jim gave him. “Thought so.”

Spock didn’t respond immediately to that either, his breath coming in short puffs, and Jim felt the tug of natural sympathy, completely removed from his own concern for Spock.

“Have you been sick this entire week?”

“Not entirely. I was well enough for my interview with Captain Finnegan.”

The words caused Jim’s hand to jerk, but barely. He wasn’t angry, not anymore; he couldn’t be, because Spock needed help, one way or another.

“Yeah? Do you…do you want me to get him for you?” Jim couldn’t ever see Finnegan as a comfort, but if Spock did…

“What purpose would that serve?” Jim was more relieved than he could say that Spock sounded puzzled by the entire idea.

“Just wondering. I thought you were friends.”

“No, Captain.”

Jim should have let it go; the conversation wasn’t very important, and it could wait.

“You were eating with him, though.”

“I see you have been listening to rumors,” Spock said, his voice gruff. “No, Captain, we are not friends. However, my father knew his great uncle, and it seemed only fitting that I respect that association. I did not expect him to be as…difficult as he was.”

Jim smiled, and he touched the long cord of Spock’s braid to move it aside, brushing stray hairs from the dampness of Spock’s forehead.

“Want me to beat him up for you?”

“That would also serve no purpose, Captain.” Which wasn’t a “no,” Jim was pleased to hear, and if the situation hadn’t been as serious as it was, he thought he might have hugged Spock. Apparently, there was still weirdness between them.

“Spock.” The comment that Spock needed a doctor didn’t come, because Jim knew Spock was as stubborn as he was. Instead, his natural curiosity surfaced. “Spock, what’s wrong with you?”

“A disease, Captain. One that has frequently reoccurring side effects.”

If these were the “side effects,” Jim hated to see the actual disease, but he didn’t say that. What could he say?

“Oh. Want me to stay with you?” He hadn’t planned that, but he was surprised to find he meant it.

“Captain, that is not necessary.”

“You say that a lot, you know. Not necessary.” Spock didn’t comment, and this time when Jim moved his hair, he accidently brushed the tip of a single ear. Spock didn’t so much as flinch. “I’ve missed the hell out of you, Spock.” The statement was more honest than Jim would have liked, and Spock turned his head to look at him. Even in the dim light, Jim could see he was surprised.

“Captain…”

Jim would have been fine, if only Spock hadn’t been so close. Because Spock’s eyes were brown—he’d known, of course, must have known—rather than the normal beetle black for Vulcans, but they weren’t just any brown. They were the color of dark rich soil or alder wood—alive and vibrant. Anything that was alive could be hurt, and Jim suddenly felt _it_ : a surge of protectiveness so strong that he almost couldn’t breathe. The moment was not unlike the one they’d experienced a week ago, but this time it was stronger, deeper, wrapped around his core. He couldn’t look away.

Spock blinked, and the moment was broken. But still, he shouldn’t have asked.

“Spock,” he opened, voice lingering slowly over the word, “why did you kiss me? That first night?”

Spock looked confused for a second, but then it cleared.

“You challenged me. It seemed appropriate, since I found you…attractive.”

Jim nodded slowly, wondering why the answer mattered when he’d expected just that response for a long time. He wondered why, and then he realized that Spock thought he was attractive…while Jim felt something else entirely.

_No. Nononono…_

“I should go. Don’t want people to talk.” Jim knew his voice sounded dazed, and he almost took it back—took everything back—when he saw open disappointment on Spock’s face. Disappointment, and something like sorrow.

“Yes, that would be best.”

Jim didn’t agree, but he had to go. If he stayed, he thought he might do something foolish, and then he stood and did so anyway, darting forward to press a perfectly innocent kiss to the center of Spock’s forehead.

“Get better, okay?”

Spock swallowed, and Jim heard the soft “thank you” just before he darted out the door. Although he made certain to wave to T’Pring as he left, there was no humor in the automatic action.

By the time he was outside, he was running.


	9. Chapter 9

_Shitshitshitshitshitshit_ —

“Jim?”

Bones’ concerned voice filtered through the bathroom door, and Jim ignored it, mostly. He splashed lukewarm water on his face and blinked slowly at his reflection, hoping that if he only stared long enough, his mantra would change.

_Shitshitshitshit—_

“Jim, seriously, you’re worrying me. Come out already!”

“Coming, Bones!” Jim shouted, voice cracking. He had a fake smile on his face by the time the door opened, and he met the narrowed brown eyes of his oldest friend, taking in the crossed arms with wariness.

“Geesh, Bones, can’t a guy use the bathroom in peace?” Jim asked lightly, and Bones scowled at him as he leaned against the door frame.

“Yeah, but you come in here white as a ghost, don’t even say hello, and then don’t say anything when I ask you what’s wrong? Yeah, I’m gonna worry.”

Jim shrugged and walked into the bedroom. Of course Bones followed, his footsteps sounding impossibly loud against the plush carpet, and Jim made a show of digging around in his dresser until he found what he was looking for.

“You worry too much.”

“And now you’re being evasive as all hell.”

Jim responded by flopping on his bed, the familiar holographic projector from Pike cradled in his palm. It was strange, but when he turned it on—for the first time in over a month, his mind insisted on reminding him—the flickering image of a starship didn’t fill him with excitement. Instead, it filled him with a feeling he had never really known: panic.

“Bones, what does it mean when you look at someone, and all you want is for them to be safe?”

Bones was looking at him suspiciously; Jim knew it, even though he didn’t look up.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” was Bones’ cautious response, and Jim closed his eyes, wondering…he didn’t have to wonder for very long, and that was the problem.

“What about when you find yourself being all poetic about their eyes, or just wanting to be by their side?”

When Jim opened his eyelids, he saw Bones staring at him with eyes blown wide with surprise.

“Jim, that’s—”

Jim snarled, and tossed the projector across the room. It made a satisfying crack against the wall.

“I  _know_  what it is, Bones!” he exploded, before calming just as quickly. “Just…tell me how to get rid of it, okay?” he asked, tiredly, and Bones looked at him like he was not only an idiot, but a deliberate one.

“Jim, there isn’t an off switch for caring about someone. Don’t you think I would have found it by now if there was? What’s the big deal, anyway?”

 _The big deal_ …Jim wondered if there was anything about the situation that  _wasn’t_  a big deal, or that wouldn’t end badly.

“Bones, I…I think I’m in love with Spock.” The words were broken and defeated, admitted with shame and self-disgust.

When Bones’ response was to cover his face with his hands, shoulders shaking with obvious laughter, Jim was pissed.

“Hey, what’s so funny?” Jim asked accusingly, expecting Bones to deny his amusement. He didn’t.

“Jim. Oh, kiddo,  _only_   _you_  would make this difficult.”

Jim scowled, and he wished he had something more substantial to throw than a pillow.

“What the devil are you talking about?”

Bones looked at him in wonder, and wisely settled in the chair on the far side of the room.

“Jim, you’re getting married, and you’re in love with one of the candidates. Now, think about that for a second.” Jim did, confused as he watched Bones run a hand through his dark hair and laugh quietly to himself. “Only you would think there was something wrong with falling in love with your husband!”

Jim blinked, aware that he hadn’t looked so out of the loop since he was fifteen and just discovering sex.

“My…husband?”

Bones nodded quietly, and drew a heart in the air with both fingers. As much as Jim wanted to say, “What are you, twelve?” the words wouldn’t come, trapped by shock and realization.

“I may not be able to pick your hobgoblin out of a crowd of them, Jim, but you’ve been talking about him for weeks. Maybe not with names, but if you think I don’t notice where all those tidbits about Vulcan culture are from, you’re wrong. And, geesh, I haven’t even  _seen you that often_.”

Jim tried again.

“My  _husband_?”

Bones just nodded again, slower this time.

“You think those scientists haven’t noticed? Or that they won’t? These matches are about compatibility, Jim, and you’re  _in love_.” The emphasis Bones put on his last words was alarming, enough that Jim wanted to deny it on principle. But since he had come to the same conclusion himself less than twenty minutes ago, the denial would have been false…and he had bigger problems anyway.

“But…Bones, what happens when I’m  _not_  anymore?” Jim had never heard of anyone who hadn’t lost that spark, and he knew himself: boredom came easily, and Jim felt like he would die if he betrayed Spock like that. Worse, he felt like he would hate  _himself_  if he stopped caring about that future betrayal.

Bones, unaware of his inner thoughts, just gave him an expression that said he was making this too complicated.

“That one’s up to you. Do you think you could hate him?”

“No.” Jim had never hated Spock, not even when they disagreed, not even before Jim had known him. He doubted he could start, unless Spock had a secret life as a cannibal or something.

“Do you think you could develop an open relationship? You with yours, and him with his?”

The very idea had filled Jim with rage earlier, and with the question, that anger returned.

“No!”

Bones just shrugged.

“Then you’ll manage, like most married couples do. And that’s  _if_  you fall out of love—some don’t.”

Jim couldn’t believe it was that simple.

“Bones, you yourself said—”

“Jim, everyone’s wrong sometimes,” Bones interrupted softly, and Jim thought about everything he could say to that. No one was ever wrong about James Kirk, not when it came to this…but he didn’t say that, choosing instead to focus on Bones’ clean, dark,  _nice_  suit.

“Where have you been, anyway?”

Bones’ eyes shifted, and Jim felt triumphant.

“I was having lunch with Christine.”

The image of a pretty, serious blonde popped into his head, and Jim grinned.

“ _Christine_ , huh? Jumping back on that horse already?”

Bones just glared at him.

“There is no  _horse_ , thank you. I just thought it would be nice to have lunch with a friend since my  _other_  friend decided to have a meltdown instead.”

“Whatever you say, Bones!” Jim singsonged, and Bones sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“Laugh it up, Jim. Doesn’t change the facts, though—you’re  _in love_.”

Bones moved out of reach before Jim could hit him, wisely leaving the room to go to his date. Jim didn’t watch him go; already, his thoughts were whirling with possibilities he’d never considered, and for once, those possibilities didn’t seem like a bad thing.

********

Jim might not have been the highest intellectual in his species, but even he needed a break from thinking every once in a while. So, rather than worrying about the possibilities of his revelation and Bones’ own thoughts on the subject, the next few days were spent worrying about his best friend’s problems instead. Although Bones might have seemed like he had everything under control, Jim knew the truth, and the truth was that screwed up people attracted others: Bones had his own little breakdowns when he thought no one was looking, and in the case of being on a distant planet watching his little girl be taken out of his reach indefinitely, those breakdowns were many.

Jim—for the first time he could recall—was grateful that Vulcan didn’t have any alcohol; at this point, he thought Bones would have drowned in it, and there was nothing he would have been able to do to stop it. That lawyer Bones had hired? Incompetent. Working time differences? Unrealistic. Jocelyn’s mercy? Nonexistent. Jim wasn’t surprised that—over the next few days—Bones leaned heavily on the person he could trust most, as well as the new person in his life: a blonde doctor with as much heart as she had tolerance for Jim’s nonsense and Bones’ pity party, and that was tons. Jim hoped—more than anything—that she would stay when the dust settled even though she seemed to know she was only temporary, and together, they helped Bones stay strong.

Of course, eventually avoidance had to end. Vulcans were nothing if not adept at keeping track of time, and once they had reached the two month marker of peace with their human guests, they hosted another dinner, this one larger and grander than the last. Aside from the presence of human officials that Jim had strangely not spoken to for months—he had been used to explaining his actions at least once a week before—there were also officials of several other species, in addition to Southern Vulcans, distinct with their dark skin and light hair, and even the occasional independent Andorian. By all appearances, peace was progressing rapidly if uneasily, and Jim would have smiled, except for some reason, there was a twisting sensation in his stomach that wouldn’t go away.

“Well, there’s a face I haven’t seen in a while.” The deep, amused voice was easily recognizable, and Jim turned, a wide, surprised smile growing on his face when he spotted Pike.

“Admiral!”

Pike extended his hand and Jim clasped it, the handshake meaning more to him than any of Pike’s medals. Still, it was the open affection on his face that made Jim smile even more, and the honest feelings made it easy to pretend that he hadn’t just been searching the crowd for one particular Vulcan.

“Hello, Jim. Staying out of trouble?”

Jim nodded cheerfully, and Pike didn’t even look suspicious. He actually looked like he’d missed his surrogate son, and Jim wasn’t surprised to find the feeling was mutual.

“More or less. You?”

“The same. We’ve just finished the alliance conditions—weeks of work, and now,  _finally_ , we have a working contract that will make our two planets a force to be reckoned with.”

“That’s great.” Pike waited. “Great!” Jim repeated with enthusiasm, and Pike mock-frowned.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re about to do something I’ll regret?”

Jim just continued to smile. It was difficult to pretend he wasn’t at least content if not filled to the brim with anticipation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The denial was less convincing than he would have hoped, primarily because that was when he spotted a familiar lean figure across the room, wrapped in dark blue and gold and looking for Jim just as obviously.

“Sure, Jim. Stay out of trouble, you hear?”

Jim clapped Pike on the shoulder, but the goodbye he’d intended didn’t come and he didn’t notice, already too busy moving through the gathering of politicians with only one goal in mind. He didn’t know where Bones had disappeared to. He didn’t know what Pike had said when he’d left. He didn’t know what he was going to say when he reached Spock…but he knew he had to reach him.

They met next to the buffet table, the same as they had that first time. Unlike that time, however, when Jim looked up at Spock now, it was with affection he couldn’t hide and a smile that lit up the room.

“Spock, I have to talk to you,” he blurted, cutting straight to the chase, and he was thrilled when Spock responded quietly with “Captain, I have to speak to you as well.” They moved together to the outskirts of the ballroom, and then—with only a short nod between them—they pushed outside, cutting across the attached gardens until they were sharing the shadows rather than the light.

When they finally stopped, Jim looked up at Spock, lit by only dim light, and he wanted to say so much. Had to say it…but something stopped him.

“How are you?” he asked instead, and Spock inclined his head at the formality.

“Much improved, thank you. And you, Captain?”

Jim swallowed, and tried to recover his casual, flirtatious attitude. It wasn’t easy, but eventually he managed to look at Spock like he didn’t hold the entire world in his hands.

“I’m okay. I have a friend who’s going through some legal issues at the moment, but we’ll be okay,” Jim answered, hoping Bones wouldn’t mind the vague description.

“I see.”

“Okay, Spock, you go first.”

Spock stiffened, and folded his arms behind his back. Jim didn’t understand the formal stance until Spock began to speak.

“Very well. Captain, I believe we should end our association.”

Jim felt like somebody had just splashed him with ice water; cold, and then hot all over.

“What?  _Why_?”

“Captain, you know the reasons.” The words were spoken quietly, and Jim couldn’t come up with a response quickly enough to interrupt. “Neither of us expected our time together to lead to this, but I fear that it has. If we allow this…friendship…to continue, it will only end badly.”

Jim swallowed, and wondered at the irony. Wasn’t it  _his_  job to break things off, not the other way around? Jim had never been dumped, not really, and it was worse because he and Spock had never been together. Not really.

“I don’t see why that has to be the case. I’m single, you’re single—”

“Captain, I am dying,” Spock interrupted smoothly, and Jim’s head snapped up to stare at his serious, calm,  _resigned_ face.

“…what?”

“The disease I spoke to you of several days ago is not just permanent, but fatal,” Spock explained without inflection, and Jim felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. It has also killed my father and elder brother, which is the reason I now hold the title of S’haile.”

It made sense, too much sense, in every way except one: Spock was dying.  _Spock_ was dying. Spock was  _dying_.

It wasn’t  _possible_.

“How much longer do you have?” The words were barely audible, spoken to the ground, but somehow Spock heard them regardless.

“A month ago, the answer would have been years. However, I would be foolish if I did not acknowledge that it has worsened.”

Jim sucked in a painful breath.

“So…months? Still years?” He attempted to confirm, wondering why he was trying to cause himself pain. He should have acknowledged Spock’s words and Spock’s condition with a glib smile, and begun to move on already. Should have but he couldn’t, and Spock looked at him long and hard.

“Captain, why is this relevant?”

“Spock, if you think I can just shut my…friendship for you off, you’re wrong. So far, I don’t see anything that you can tell me that will make it go away.”

It was the edited version of everything Jim had meant to say, but the words of  _infatuation_  that he’d intended were smothered, knowing that Spock wouldn’t want to hear them.

“Captain…” He sounded tired, and Jim closed his eyes tightly.

“Jim, Spock. Call me Jim, just this once.”

When he opened his eyes in the silence, Spock was looking at him with an expression too warm to be named.

“Jim,” he said softly, the word fond and caressing, and Jim thought,  _To hell with it!_

He reached for Spock, his fingers wrapping around that long braid. He longed to comb the fine strands with his fingers, to feel it spread around his body, but instead he just pulled him forward, meeting him halfway. Jim kissed him with everything he had, punctuated the gesture with the press of his body, and when Spock laid a hand across his spine to hold him close and return the kiss, Jim felt hope.

Until Spock pulled away.

“Captain, it would be kinder—to the both of us—if we did not allow this to continue. When I die, you will be without an ally in this world.” It was spoken so factually, and Jim knew he was right. Knew it, but didn’t care.

“And you? You want to just…die alone?”

Spock looked at him with accepting eyes.

“I do not, but the cost of company in those last few hours would seem too high.”

Jim felt a twinge in his chest, and he wondered if he was so obvious, if he’d been giving off “in-love vibes” for days.

“You act like you’re going to break my heart. I’m not in love with you, you know,” Jim said snappishly, lying through his teeth and hoping Spock couldn’t tell.

“Nor I you,” Spock countered, and Jim’s chest ached, just a little, “but if we continue to associate so informally, this may change.”

Jim swallowed.

“Okay. We…we can’t be friends anymore.”

“Correct.”

Jim looked at Spock then, hearing the reluctance in his voice, and tried one last idea.

“Can we still have lessons? I still need the information, and the practice.”

Spock hesitated.

“That may not be wise.”

“Please?” Jim asked, hoping…and then Spock nodded.

“Very well. And Captain?”

“Yeah?”

“Inform your friend that I have a cousin named Solmeck who is considered by many to be one of the greatest legal minds in the civilized universe. He will help with these legal matters, without charge.”

If Jim hadn’t already been in love, he was positive that would have done it, and he smiled sadly, still tasting Spock on his lips.

“I’ll tell Bones.”

Spock nodded once, shortly, and then turned away.

“Goodnight, Captain.”

Before Jim could say anything— _call me Jim_ —Spock was gone, walking back across the well-lit pathways to the ballroom beyond. Jim watched him, and he considered following, just to see him again, even if he didn’t so much as look Jim’s way. Considered it, and rejected it.

Jim stood outside for a very long time.


	10. Chapter 10

“Captain, this is not what I meant when I agreed to continue our lessons,’” Spock said, his voice slightly exasperated as he once again found his chair rigid alongside its match and their legs pressed tight against one another. Jim smiled sheepishly, unable to prevent his amusement at the fact that his entire being seemed magnetized to every available Vulcan surface, nor was he able to prevent the slight edge of pain that the thought brought.

What? He couldn’t  _help_  it, even if he tried; he was never aware of moving, of making a conscious decision to be closer to Spock…but every once in a while Spock would look at him with those brown eyes and be so  _close_ , and Jim would realize that he’d invaded his boundaries,  _again._  To be honest, he was sick of attempting to prevent it, and this time when Spock just continued to stare at him patiently, Jim made a show of shifting in his chair but not moving so much as an inch.

Spock just shook his head lightly, looking for all the world like he didn’t want the closeness although Jim knew the expression was just for show, and then he leaned forward, one hand resting against the volume that he had been speaking about just moments earlier.

“This, Captain, is the  _Yeht To-Gav_ , the list of the governing laws of Vulcan. It contains everything from property laws to those regulating war, and is an amalgam of every recorded ruling as well as particular documents of higher authority concerning basic rights of the individual.”

Jim eyed the dusty book, examining it closely as Spock no doubt wanted; although it was thick—two dictionaries worth, he’d guess—it in no way looked like it contained the laws of a society over three thousand years old.

“Just one book?” he asked doubtfully, and Spock shook his head.

“No, Captain. This is merely the directory; the laws themselves are stored in our computer system for easy examination, as well as existing in physical form in approximately fourteen hundred volumes.”

Jim jerked in reaction to the number, unable to stop himself, and he lifted the front cover to see tiny, neat, _alphabetical_  entries listing everything from  _ahkhan_  (warfare, Spock easily translated) to  _zhuk-fas-tor_ , or forgery, on the very last page. Jim just shook his head, and flipped through the pages in front of him, examining unfamiliar Vulcan words with a feeling of awe.

“ _Shit_. How does anyone make any decisions, ever?” Jim didn’t know how many books Vulcans regularly read, but being able to memorize over a thousand books was far and above  _anyone_ ’s capabilities.

“Vulcans have superb memories, of course, and in the field of their career— _Captain_.”

Jim had been staring blankly at the neat lettering, but at Spock’s disapproving tone, he looked up…and realized that while he’d been distracted, his hand had found Spock’s knee. Jim pulled away as if he’d suddenly found himself groping a cactus, and he took in Spock’s expression—he was clearly not amused.

“Sorry. Maybe we should take a break?”

Spock sighed and closed the cover with a snap, nearly catching Jim’s fingers.

“I think it would be best if we ended our lesson for today. Clearly, something must be done to avoid your…distraction.”

Spock said “distraction” in the same way Jim would have said “vicious razor beast,” but whatever guilt he might have felt was lost in the way Spock’s eyes still looked at him fondly. Jim—quite understandably—was reluctant to leave.

“Well, how about food?”

“Food, Captain?”

Jim’s stomach gurgled in agreement, right on cue, and he smiled, on a roll.

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve never eaten with you, so it could be a chance to…well, keep my hands busy.”

“Captain, ‘eating’ to Vulcans is typically a private, quiet affair. Conversation during is sparse, and often considered offensive.”

Which at least made Jim feel somewhat better about the fact that he’d never eaten with Spock, but curiously, the boring description did nothing to deter his enthusiasm about the event.

“Just once?” he asked, pleading, and Spock capitulated easily.

“Very well.” A button was pushed on the surface of his desk, and Spock’s voice, when it emerged, was polite and distant. “T’Asis, food for my human guest and I, if you please.”

Jim raised an eyebrow, somewhat surprised.

“You have a chef?”

Spock didn’t seem like the type to accept others serving him—hell, Jim still wasn’t sure what T’Pring did when she wasn’t scaring away unwanted guests—and true to the man he knew, Spock shook his head.

“Not exactly. T’Asis is a distant cousin, and she has recently been experiencing financial difficulties. I offered her a small position for her board.”

“You do that a lot, don’t you?” Jim asked, amused and something else as he bared a spot on the table in front of them.

“I am uncertain to what you refer.”

“You know, help people. T’Pring, T’Asis, Bones, who knows who else.”

Spock shrugged, like the quality wasn’t rare, or good.

“It is a small matter. This building was made to house a large, extended family, and there is room. I would not be so generous if space was limited.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jim agreed neutrally, not believing a word and wanting to kiss Spock more than he could say. He changed the subject quickly, almost afraid that his distraction would lead to just that. “Bones says “thanks,” by the way—that lawyer is a real crackerjack.”

Spock inclined his head in acknowledgement as he set the pile of paper and books next to the abandoned chess board that Jim hadn’t had the heart to take back to his own room.

“Although I am uncertain what a “crackerjack” implies, you may tell Doctor McCoy that his gratitude is acknowledged.”

Jim rolled his eyes, easily guessing Bones’ response to his gratitude being “acknowledged,” but his comments on the matter were effectively stopped when a slim young woman with surprisingly short hair entered, baring a tray with two bowls and two glasses.

“Thank you, T’Asis,” Spock acknowledged politely, and T’Asis left with a bow, and not so much as a word to either of them. Jim thought it was odd, but the thought was quickly forgotten as Spock handed him a bowl.

“So, what’s this?” Jim asked, eying the fragrant blue broth in front of him; it didn’t escape his notice that Spock’s bowl contained a similar broth, looking significantly paler than his own.

“This, Captain, is  _shor t’fori_ , a type of soup commonly served to the sick or elderly. Naturally, it is also edible to humans, one of the few dishes that can be adapted to be so.”

“Yeah?” Jim dipped his spoon into the frothy liquid, and sipped. “Huh—tastes almost like tomato soup, with mushrooms. Why is yours a different color?”

Spock looked at his soup but did not pick up his spoon.

“To make it more appealing to the Vulcan palate, a thick syrup similar to honey on Earth is often added. It makes the dish sweet beyond what a human is often capable of handling.”

Jim nodded along, and he continued to swallow his soup, growing more and more accustomed to the smooth broth as he ate in reluctant silence. When it did not appear that Spock was going to eat, however, Jim paused.

“Not hungry? Or do you just not want to eat with me?”

Spock stared at his soup for a moment, and then pushed it away.

“I find I have no appetite.”

Jim would have been worried, wanted to be worried, even, but from the way Spock’s eyes darted to the side, Jim suspected sympathy was the last thing he needed. They were playing the “ignore it” game, and really, Jim was…resigned to it.

“Well, do you mind then?” Jim asked, gesturing to the abandoned soup, and Spock shook his head. Jim, in response, dipped the bowl of his spoon into the slightly thicker meal, and tasted it just barely. The vegetable flavor of his own was almost completely drowned by the clinging sweetness, and Jim gagged immediately, attempting to remove the taste from his tongue by rapidly swallowing his glass of water.

“ _Bleh_. You’re right, that’s sweet enough to kill a horse.” Spock looked amused at the description, so Jim elaborated. “Well, if horses ate soup, which they don’t. Have you ever tried any human food?”

Spock looked uncertain.

“When I was a child, perhaps, but certainly not recently.”

Jim nodded decisively, and pushed his own now-empty bowl to the side, next to Spock’s.

“Well, I’ll bring you some, okay? Next time.”

Spock nodded and that was the end of the conversation, because Jim had worn out his excuse of “just lessons.” He left without being asked, walking slowly back to his own room with longing attempting to pull him in the other direction, but he continued, because Spock had never said Jim’s persistence would be welcome. Still, tearing himself away from something he wanted so desperately was difficult, and by the time he reached the confines of his room, he was shaking.

He thought it was an overreaction—his body’s way of telling him that it would not tolerate his attempts to be good—but then he stumbled, unable to catch himself as his hands were suddenly slick with sweat. He was going to be sick, oh God, he was going to puke, and it was only with the sudden grasp of Bones’ hands that he was able to the bathroom in time to avoid messing the floor.

“Easy, boy. Easy, easy,” Bones said comfortingly as he patted Jim’s back, and Jim would have said “thank you” if he had been able to. However, every attempt was stopped by sudden nausea and a pain so sharp that he could scarcely breathe, and he could concentrate on nothing.

The next time Jim was aware of his surroundings was when he was lying on his bed, a hand-held scanner poised over his chest and a blurry, half-dressed Bones and Christine looking on with concern.

“Wha…happened?” Jim mumbled out, his throat dry, and Christine held a glass of water to his lips. Even that tiny bit of liquid caused his stomach to twist, and Jim felt it nearly come back up as he waited for his answer.

Bones watched his scanner for a moment, muttered something that sounded like “I’ll be damned,” and then stood to retrieve his medical bag. Jim felt a hypo press into his neck, and almost instantly, his vision cleared and the nausea subsided.

“Bones?”

Jim was pleased that his voice came out sounding almost normal, and he watched Bones sag in relief.

“Jesus, Jim, you scared us.” His eyes narrowed, and the concern became anger and disbelief. “What the  _hell_  were you doing?”

Jim would have thought that was obvious.

“Uh, being sick?”

“No, before that. How the hell did you manage to get  _grayanotoxin poisoning_  on a planet that doesn’t even have the damn stuff?”

Jim frowned, the expression minute, and he attempted to sit up. His arms shook, and he felt the comforting clasp of a silent Christine help him maneuver until he was propped.

“Gray-what?”

“Grayanotoxin. It shows up in a lot of plants on Earth, resulted in a few deaths before a good counter toxin was found, pretty commonly causes sickness in animals,” Bones explained dismissively, showing Jim the readout on his scanner that made only slightly more sense than if it had been in Vulcan.

Jim shrugged, the gesture more tiring than he would have liked.

“I don’t know. I ate something?”

“Well, unless you were chewing on some shrubbery or eating a whole shit-ton of honey, I don’t know what you were up to.”

The word sparked something too strong to be a coincidence, and Jim gasped loudly enough that Bones looked ready to spring for a bucket.

“Honey?”

“Yeah,” Bones confirmed, and Jim’s mind was already moving quickly through every option. “Azaleas are one of the more common plants containing the stuff, and there used to be a problem with bees harvesting it, and producing something called “mad honey.” Actually, there was a problem with the entire  _rhododendron_  family, now that I think of it.”

“What are the symptoms?”

“You need more?” Jim glared at him and Bones held up his hands, while Christine carefully replaced his bag and pulled a sweater over her admittedly fine physique, watching the two of them with interest. “Fine. Weakness, nausea, vomiting, fever, burning mouth, eventual death. Why?”

“You said they don’t have it here?” To Jim’s mind, that meant so much more than a list of symptoms, even though the list confirmed what he had already suspected.

“Yeah. So?”

Jim was short of breath, but for reasons that didn’t cause him to worry.  _That’s it_ , he thought, body brimming with excitement.  _That’s it!_

“Bones, Spock is sick, really sick. The doctors here all say it’s a disease, but I just ate some of his food.”

Bones looked at him in confusion for a moment, the expression clearing as he glanced at Christine.

“You think Vulcans use it for seasoning, or something?”

Christine shook her head, and Jim agreed. Spock had this “disease,” but so had his brother, and his father—if it was fatal to Vulcans, the populous would have known about it by now.

“No, nothing like that. Bones…I think somebody’s trying to poison him.”

“What the hell for?”

“I don’t know; maybe it’s an accident,” Jim theorized, the explanation making perfect sense to him. He expected Bones to agree and possibly call him a genius, but his friend just shared an exasperated look with the blonde who—now that Jim noticed—was sporting more than a single hickey.

“Jim, you do know that Vulcan doctors are some of the finest in the universe? That they would definitely be able to recognize  _poison_  over a disease?”

“Maybe.”

“No  _maybe_. Jim, if Spock says he has a disease, he has a disease.” Bones’ expression shifted to sympathy, because he was a good doctor if occasionally an intolerable friend. “Is it fatal?”

“Yeah.” Jim didn’t know why that was relevant except to prove his point even more, but Christine patted his hand silently and Bones looked away, and Jim knew.

“Jim, I’ve been a doctor for a long time. And one thing I’ve noticed over the years is that people tend to make up theories about illness to comfort themselves, even going so far as to say that doctors are sabotaging a patient’s health. It never ends well.”

“Bones, I didn’t make up vomiting on the floor,” Jim said, exasperated. “Will you just tell me if there’s a possibility of Spock having this poisoning instead of a disease?”

Bones, clearly reluctant, answered the question.

“It’s possible. Unlikely, but possible, but we don’t know that—unless you can get me in there to scan him, get a sample of his food, or somehow keep him from eating anything that could be contaminated, there’s no way I can help.”

Jim shrugged like it was no big deal, and it wasn’t.

“I’ll just ask him for a sample of his food.” Spock probably wouldn’t even care, and he would be grateful if Jim turned out to be right. It seemed easy enough, but Bones apparently disagreed.

“What? No!” Jim looked at him in surprise at the fervent protest, and Bones slapped him on the forehead. “Jim, do you even  _think_? Do you know what would happen if you let it slip that you thought someone was  _poisoning one of the Unifiers_? Shit would hit the fan like you wouldn’t believe.”

Although Jim could understand the concern, the alternative seemed unthinkable to him.

“Well, what do you want me to do? If he’s being poisoned, someone is  _killing_  him with it, and I can’t just look away. Jesus, it’s  _Spock_ , Bones!”

The shout was followed by silence, and Jim looked up to see that—at some point—Christine had wisely left. Bones didn’t seem to notice, because despite the fact that Jim had clearly interrupted their  _date_ , he was a doctor first and foremost, and Jim’s friend.

“Just…be subtle, kid,” Bones recommended, sounding reluctant. “Swipe some of his food. Keep him from eating anything you don’t see made. Just  _don’t_  tell him!”

Jim swallowed, and even though he knew it was a bad idea—a very bad idea—he agreed.

“Okay, Bones. Okay.”

And Jim hoped with everything that he had that he hadn’t just made the wrong choice.


	11. Chapter 11

Jim’s decision of what to do came approximately two days later, while he was hip-deep in his final interview with Vommeck, the scientifically-oriented Vulcan Jim barely remembered but who clearly remembered him.

“Captain Kirk,” Vommeck asked, expression blank, “how have you fared in your interviews? Have you chosen your mate?”

It was not the question Jim had been expecting, neither uninterested nor one of the approved questions on the list that Jim still hadn’t found. Jim was surprised for half an instant, and then Vommeck—proving that he had more social skills than he let on—correctly interpreted his expression.

“Captain, it has been two point six months; it is impossible for you not to have a preference at this point,” Vommeck explained, adjusting his glasses with a single finger. “I myself have a preference as well, and consider this interview merely a formality.”

Jim agreed; it was the first time he could ever remember agreeing with a Vulcan during his interview, and the easy acceptance—that Vommeck wasn’t for him and he wasn’t for Vommeck—made the conversation much easier.

“Yeah, I guess I do. Can I ask you a question about that? About Vulcan mating?”

Jim expected, out of everyone, for a scientist to be able to talk about the personal subject without being offended, and although Vommeck raised one eyebrow, he nodded.

“Of course.”

“Vulcans mate for life, right?” Vommeck nodded again, and Jim clasped his fingers together, too tightly. “Well, what happens when one…dies? Do they move on?”

It had been bothering him for days. If Spock died, what then? Aside from the pain, would he be expected to marry again, to love again, to be again? He didn’t think he could do it.

“There are biological drives that force that, yes. However, it is my understanding that once a Vulcan has experienced the complete bonding that can be provided only by their most compatible mate, they are unable to move on…completely, as it were.”

Jim heaved a sigh of relief.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He knew what he had to do, and as soon as their interview ended—filled with discussion on, alternately, human and Vulcan anatomy because it would shock the hell out of their listeners—Jim left quickly, moving towards the requisition desk with a list already in mind. The approval came instantly, primarily because nothing he wanted was complicated. It was all food, human food carefully imported and carefully chosen to adhere to those Vulcan practices even though Jim didn’t know if he could live on salads for weeks. When he decided that he couldn’t, he also selected items of his own—ham, beef, turkey—but the various vegetables he got were for one reason, and one reason only: Spock.

If it killed him, he was going to prove that Spock  _was_  being poisoned…and operation “Save Spock” started that very day.

********

Although Jim suspected Spock considered his efforts at “acclimatizing” him to human foods to be mostly amusing and entirely without any practical purpose, he humored him. Jim was counting on Spock to humor him, and so Jim provided him with his one meal a day, directly from Jim’s hands to his own, always with a smile and a joke to hide the fact that it was something his life depended on.

Spock began to get better. Jim wasn’t imagining it, and little by little, Spock seemed to gain back strength he hadn’t had in the entire time Jim had known him. With each meal, the time between bouts of illness grew, and Jim was excited, ecstatic, relieved and overjoyed to see that his suspicions seemed to be confirmed. If Spock was being influenced by something that was not his body’s own failure, the illness could end, would end. If Spock was not dying, he had no more boundaries, no more reason to keep Jim at arm’s length. If Spock wasn’t really sick, he could love him back, and they could spend their years discovering each other’s bodies and knowing that, no matter their choices, they would not be alone. Although Jim was aware of exactly how ridiculous the thought process was, he still believed, even so, that everything would work out for the best if only Spock got better. Bones often warned him to be careful—after all, poison meant a  _poisoner_ —but Jim didn’t care; Spock was  _getting_   _better_.

And then one day, Jim walked into the building—welcomed once again under the illusion of lessons and teaching Spock about human foods—and Spock was abed again.

“Hello…Captain…” Spock panted out, one hand pressed to his abdomen and the other twisted in his bed sheets. Jim felt the bottom drop out of his world even as he darted to retrieve a cool cloth, routine familiar.

_Spock, no, Spock…_

Spock looked at him as Jim wet his forehead, eyes sad.

“Forgive me,” Spock said, surprising Jim. “I had hoped…but I see now that it was foolish.”

“No, Spock, it’s okay,” Jim soothed, throat raw. “It’s my fault. I should have…”  _been honest with myself._   _Believed Bones. Let you go._  There were many things he should have done but hadn’t, because Jim was selfish, so selfish.

“It is no one’s fault. I should have known better than to eat…”

An alarm went off in Jim’s head, and the cloth dropped from his fingertips.

“Eat? What did you eat? I didn’t visit you this morning.”

Spock looked at him curiously, and for once, Jim was unmoved by his brown eyes, his heart pounding frantically in his chest and his eyes darting from side to side.

“I ate a bowl of soup.”

Jim whipped his head around, looking for the empty bowl. He saw many.

“Which bowl? Is it still here?”

“No, it was removed a quarter of an hour ago.”

Jim cursed, loud enough that he was certain the lower levels heard him.

“ _Dammit_. Spock, you shouldn’t have done that! Dammit, I  _asked_  you to—” He closed his mouth abruptly, teeth clacking together, and Spock looked alarmed, enough that he tried to sit up. He looked worried, but Jim was unable to enjoy the obvious concern.

“Captain, what is it?”

Spock’s fingers touched his cheek curiously, and Jim took a deep breath, wrapping his hands around Spock’s shoulders, wondering how much thinner they would become if this continued. It couldn’t.

“Spock, you’re not sick.”

Spock jerked back.

“You are insane.”

“I mean, it’s not a disease. Spock, someone has been poisoning you.”

 “That is impossible.”

Spock narrowed his eyes, a warning, one that Jim didn’t heed.

“It isn’t! Remember when I tried some of your soup that one day, sweetened with honey? When I got back to my room, I was sick, same as you…and Bones told me it was poison from an Earth plant.”

Unlike the doubt that still lingered in Bones, Spock looked at him with cautious belief in his face.

“You are certain?”

“No, but I don’t think it’s a coincidence that as soon as you eat Vulcan food again, you get sick again.”

Spock appeared to mull that over, and Jim waited, hoping. But when Spock looked at him again, it was also to wrench his hands from their resting place on his shoulders.

Spock was angry. Very, very angry.

“You have suspected this for three weeks, and you did not tell me.”

Jim felt his eyes go wide; of all the responses he had expected, this was not it.

“Spock, it was only a suspicion. If we’d said…”

“We?” Spock repeated, tone acidic, and Jim explained hurriedly.

“Bones and I, and another doctor.”

If Jim had expected the clarification to solve anything, he was wrong. In fact, it did the exact opposite.

“You did not trust me.”

Jim held his hands up in a plea that Spock ignored as he rolled to one side, presenting Jim with his back.

“No! I didn’t want to—”

“Leave.” The order was quiet but succinct, and Jim gaped.

“What?”

“You did not trust me, Captain, not even in matters of my own life. Leave.”

Jim did. He wasn’t certain, exactly, why he did; Spock’s request, his own guilt, his surprise or his certainty, but he left, even slamming the door behind him. He stomped down the stairs and across the landing, not even realizing he was angry until T’Pring calmly moved out of his way without a single comment. But dammit, Jim was trying to  _save_  him…at what point did that mean he didn’t trust Spock? He  _loved_  him, for Christ’s sake.

 _Ah_ , whispered an insidious little voice,  _but do you trust him? Does he trust you? You’ve never said there was love involved_.

Which was true, at least; Jim hadn’t admitted to anything except friendship, and Spock might have doubted that—had _cause_  to doubt that—if Jim was keeping secrets.

 _Shit._  It was the only thought in his head when he entered his assigned room, the only thought swirling with regret, and then he looked instinctively for Bones, intending to tell him exactly what he’d found. But…Bones was looking at him with the saddest eyes Jim had ever seen, and Jim was instantly on the alert.

“Bones? Is it Joanna? Did you lose the hearing?”

Bones shook his head and wiped at his eyes.

“No, Jim, nothing like that. Looks like it’s going to be joint custody, but—ah—this was delivered a few minutes ago.”

Bones then waved a small sheet of white paper at him, neatly folded in half but not sealed. Jim took it, puzzled, and opened it, laying it out flat against the wall before he read it.

“Confirmed Matches,” it said at the top, and Jim took that to mean the interviews had finally been processed. He found his name…and the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

 _James T. Kirk and Osu Taren_. Jim didn’t even remember who that was, and he skimmed the page quickly until he found it.  _Robert Daniel Wesley and S’haile Spock._

“This…this isn’t possible.”

He felt Bones’ hand come to rest comfortingly on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, kid. I’m sorry.” Bones had read it, of course he had—no reason not to. No one had thought…but there it was, in black and white.

Jim shrugged off Bones’ touch, angry.

“No, not yet. I’m not just going to…where the hell is Semek?”

Jim didn’t wait for an answer, his feet automatically taking him to the basement room that had been home to each interview. There was no one inside, but Jim was undeterred; he banged on the wall, hard, until a familiar figure appeared in the doorway, obviously having been nearby. Obviously expecting him.

“Greetings, Captain.”

Jim scowled and flung the paper at his face.

“Don’t you play polite with me! What the hell is this?”

Semek caught the fluttering parchment, glanced down, and raised an eyebrow.

“That is your most compatible match, Captain,” he said simply, handing the paper back. Jim wanted to tear it to shreds.

“No, it isn’t! I don’t even remember who this  _is_!”

“Osu Taren was your first interview, Captain.”

A face appeared in Jim’s mind, and he was horrified.

“The  _kid_? You paired me with the damn  _kid_? Why the hell would you do that?”

Semek looked at him with something like disdain for a moment before answering.

“For you in particular, Captain, it was the only successful interview.”

Jim glared, his stance shifting automatically for a fight, but Semek didn’t so much as flinch.

“How do you know that?”

“You were both polite and friendly, a sign of positive emotions. During the successive four interviews, you demonstrated anger, disinterest, annoyance, and disgust, as well as ending three of the four prematurely. It is fortunate we were able to match you at all.”

The words spoke of how difficult Jim had made this for them, how logical their process, how systematic their choices. Jim hated it, and he hated the curl of despair that appeared in his mind—the touch of reality.

“What about interactions that  _weren’t_  part of the interview? What about the people we’ve been spending time with, or similar goals? Hobbies? What about lo-lust?”

“Irrelevant. As it was a condition set specifically by humans that we are not allowed to monitor you outside of our scheduled times, we do not know any of your additional information.”

They’d dug their own graves, apparently, and Jim let out a noise of frustration, slapping the now-wrinkled paper to the center table. The other pairings floated in front of his eyes: Lieutenant John Richard Kyle and Osu Tolkar, Captain Sean Francis Finnegan and Savensu Vommeck, Captain Dalton Gregory Archer and Osu Tolen. None of them made a lick of sense.

“I can’t be the only one who disagrees with this. I can’t be.”

Semek frowned minutely before he recovered, and he looked away.

“You are not. Already we have received three complaints in addition to yours, but Captain—any preference you had should have been stated on the questionnaire sheet you were provided.”

Jim had never filled it out. He had just assumed…but that was the problem. He’d forgotten that the only recorded contact he and Spock had shared was filled with anger and distrust. He’d forgotten…and now he was stuck.

“I am sorry, Captain,” Semek said, and Jim almost imagined sympathy in his face. “However, our decision is final. Please try to make the best of this.”

Jim wondered how he could, but Semek left before he could protest further…leaving Jim with a sheet of paper and his recently discovered dreams scattered around his feet.


	12. Chapter 12

Jim didn’t say anything when he returned, because there was nothing left to say. Bones already knew the outcome by the expression on his face, and Jim accepted the offered sympathy and shoulder without a word.

“Easy, boy. Easy, easy.” It was a familiar ritual, but it did not bring him comfort. Make the best of it, Semek had said, but Jim saw only one future with that poor uncertain kid. They would get married, live together peacefully, maybe even become friends over time and after Jim got over the fact he was just barely out of diapers…they would be married, and Jim would long for Spock for the rest of his life.

 _At least he’ll be alive_. It was a hollow comfort, but real; Spock might have been angry with him when he’d left that day—God, just that  _afternoon_?—but he had believed Jim when he’d claimed poison, and that meant he wouldn’t die. He would live, and be married to Wesley. Good old Wesley, who Jim couldn’t cuckhold if he wanted to, because he was calm and rational and probably  _just Spock’s type._  They’d probably be happy.

 _You’re going to drive yourself crazy with this_. It was true, but Jim didn’t know how to stop it, and he actually breathed heavily against Bones’ chest, not crying, because he would never cry, not even over this. But God, he wanted to.

There was a knock at the door, and Bones shifted.

“That’s probably Christine. I’ll tell her to come back tomorrow, okay?”

Jim straightened both his spine and his shirt, coughing lightly into his fist to disguise the fact that his smile wobbled unconvincingly on his face.

“No, Bones. Sorry, but I—ah—I’ll be okay in a moment.”

Bones patted his arm again, three times, the last one lingering— _pat, pat, paaat_. Jim shrugged it off, and Bones sighed in obvious sympathy.

“No, you won’t, kid. But I’ll be right back, and we can talk about that too.”

Jim nodded, body weary.

“Okay, Bones.”

Bones left to answer the door, and Jim waited for what felt like hours. He could wait longer—after all, the days beyond this were stretched out indefinitely for at least a year, and then he would get his ship. Had that really been his goal just three months ago, a ship and a husband he could forget? The idea was laughable, and he wondered if the projector was still scattered on the floor against the wall, but he was too tired to sit up to look for it.

When Bones returned, Jim was just barely level with his knees.

“Jim, I’m going to stay at Christine’s tonight, okay?” he said, his voice sounding strange, and when Jim rolled his head, he saw the expression that matched. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Um, okay?” It was quite a change from what Bones had said earlier, but then the shadows shifted, revealing a tall man dressed in blue.

“He wants to talk to you,” Bones explained unnecessarily, and Jim swallowed, hard. He didn’t want to lose it in front of Spock but thought he might, especially when Bones drifted quietly out the door.

“Hey, Spock.” His voice was gruff, almost annoyed.  _Good_ , he thought. If Spock thought he wanted him out of his life, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much.  _Such a lie_.

Spock sat down on the edge of his bed, and Jim just wanted to launch himself at him and hold on. Hell, he’d bite Robert if it came to it.

“Captain. I investigated the source of my illness, as you claimed; T’Asis confessed to adding just such a substance to my food, and she is now in custody.”

Jim sighed, at least a little relieved to hear it. Of course, it was horrible to hear that it had been someone Spock had done a favor for, but then there was something…something that didn’t make sense. He couldn’t put his finger on it, however, and so dismissed the uneasy feeling.

“Did she say why she did it?”

“No, Captain, she did not. I suspect she was only a vessel, rather than the source.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Jim would have been worried, but it was difficult to poison someone when they were expecting it enough to make their own food. At least he could sleep easy at night, if not happily, and he glanced at Spock’s blank expression. “I guess you’ve seen the marriage pairings, huh?”

“I have.”

Jim looked away, and he kept his voice deliberately light.

“Must be a relief for you, huh? Now I’ll be out of your hair. And…Robert’s a good guy.” It hurt to have to praise someone else, but by God, Jim did it anyway.

 _Be happy, Spock. Just be happy…_ the thought was broken when a warm hand came to rest calmly and surprisingly over his own that was resting across his stomach.

“I will not be relieved.” Jim looked at him, surprised, and Spock looked away. “I may have been less than truthful when I implied that I did not find your company welcome.” He paused, and added quietly: “I also may have been less than truthful when I claimed I did not love you.”

“Great. Fucking great. Me too.” If Jim had wanted to be good, that knowledge would make it a whole lot harder.

“Jim.” Jim looked up, not even realizing he’d looked away until he met Spock’s eyes. They were full of pity for them both, but the expected consolation— _we’ll get through this_ —didn’t come. Instead, the topic of choice came seemingly out of nowhere.

“My mother was a servant in my father’s household. One of the few, in fact, that was not Vulcan.” Spock paused, and Jim wondered why; he found out soon enough. “My father and mother were married in secret, approximately two years before my birth.”

Jim didn’t think his eyes could get any wider.

“ _What_?”

“They were under the impression that their union would never be discovered, that there would be no…evidence. They were incorrect, and upon my birth, they were forced to separate. They did not see each other for many years, and I believe that my father regretted it to his death.”

It was all stated so simply, in true Vulcan fashion. But because it was Spock, Jim heard it, the underlying pain of a family broken…and when Spock touched his cheek, Jim  _felt_  it too.

“I…have been operating under the assumption that I would not experience the same drive as my parents, to want even when there was no logic to it. I was also incorrect.”

They said nothing for a moment, neither of them moving, and Jim flipped his hand up to hold Spock’s long-fingered one in his grasp, palm to palm. “What are we going to do, Spock?”

“As you said earlier, Captain, we are free men for a while yet.”

It was like being stabbed in the gut.

“I see why that pissed you off before,” Jim commented, and he looked at Spock, from his neat  _blue_  clothing to his perfect braid to his brown eyes. “Spock?” He didn’t have to ask.

“Yes, Jim,” Spock agreed easily, lifting a hand to touch his face. “Yes.”

Jim lunged, and this time, Spock copied the gesture, their lips meeting without hurry despite the fact that there should have been a hurry. There should have been urgency and sadness, sorrow and resignation, but touching Spock had never been unpleasant, and like before, any unhappiness drifted away at the first touch of soft lips and gentle tongue. Jim hadn’t recognized the magic of that before; he did now.

And as soon as Spock pulled away, just far enough to kiss his throat, Jim did as he’d always wanted to do, wrapping that tail of hair around and around his fist. Spock looked up at him and Jim swallowed, the sound loud.

“Take it out. I want to see it down, just once more.”

Spock nodded silently and sat back on his heels, reaching behind him to undo the single blue string that held the mane in place. He carefully unbraided each section of hair until it hung in loose waves, unevenly crinkled from remaining so long in place. The imperfection was beautiful, and Jim swallowed again.

“Is this adequate?”

“Yeah. Come here?”

Spock leaned forward and Jim leaned up, his entire body hungry. He had never wanted anyone like he wanted Spock, and the thought made Spock moan, low and deep in his throat. Jim only kissed him harder, his hands digging through strands made warm by Spock’s skin at the roots and blessedly cool at the tips, a glossy curtain that tickled his cheeks. When Spock pushed him backwards, Jim went gladly, and when his eyes opened, there was no light: just Spock.

“I do not wish to rush you.”

Good, dear Spock, who worried about things like that. It made Jim grin, surprisingly enough.

“You couldn’t. I’ve been waiting for this for months. Years.”

Jim absently stroked his hair, brushed his ears, and he knew he didn’t imagine the flush of green that bloomed on Spock’s cheeks. Despite the giveaway, however, when Spock spoke, his voice was coolly disinterested; Jim would have to find out how he did that some day.  _Or not._

 “I see. Then, I will be sure to make the experience worth your while.”

The breath of voice turned into a single kiss against the shell of his ear, and Jim pulled Spock closer until he felt the telltale sign of aroused Vulcan pressing into his leg. Even fully dressed, it felt amazing, and Jim wanted to see him, all of him, preferably over a period of years. But Jim settled, could settle, and so he arched back and forth, bucking his own hardness into the lean body above him. Spock hissed at the friction, and Jim groaned.  _Yes_ , he thought.  _Yes, finally!_

Spock’s hands roamed in response to the thought, lingering everywhere as they learned his body. His shirt was pushed to the side with insistence, and thin fingers brushed the trail of invisible hair across his stomach with fascination, an interest that made sense when Spock shucked his own shirt to reveal a cushion of thick, dark hair. Jim moaned, and his fingers carded through the wiry hair to find the copper-colored nipples underneath, rubbing and stroking as Spock pressed into him again, and again, and again.

Jim didn’t think he’d ever experienced such erotic humping in his  _life_ , and the thought was only punctuated by the sudden pressure of a hand touching him firmly through his pants. His eyes fluttered closed, and when Spock squeezed gently, he whimpered.

“Yes, God, just like that…come on, don’t stop! Touch me, touch me everywhere—”

Spock slid his hand across Jim’s stomach a second time, the muscles under his hands bunching, and then the slender digits dipped low, passing his waistband with ease and finding their way inside his underwear to the hot, throbbing length of him. Spock hummed, seemingly pleased, and Jim chuckled.

“Never had a human before?”

“No, Jim. Your anatomy is not significantly different than a Vulcan’s; however, I find myself impressed with how  _slick_ you are.” Spock punctuated the statement with a swipe of his thumb across the delicate head of Jim’s cock, and Jim was unable to stop his hips from rotating.

“Just wait,” he panted out. “When you’re inside me, just wait to see how  _slick_  I’m getting. God, Spock, you make me hard just looking at you.”

“Such compliments deserve to be rewarded, Jim. If I may?”

Jim didn’t know what he wanted and he didn’t care, responding by nodding frantically. Spock, in response, pulled his pants down his hips so rapidly that he heard a ripping sound, suddenly absurdly glad that they were in his room and that he didn’t have to take the walk of shame back with his ass hanging in the air.

Of course, all that was forgotten when Spock slid off his body, crouched in front of him, and spread his legs wide enough to accommodate broad Vulcan shoulders.

“Fascinating,” Spock murmured, and Jim laughed;  _what_  a compliment. “You are pink here.” Spock brushed the tip of one finger against his opening, and Jim’s laugh became a gasp.

“Red blood, baby!” he announced cheerfully, and Spock nodded slowly. He nodded, and then dipped his head down to lick at the tiny opening. Jim’s legs jerked instantly at the sudden sensation, and Spock responded by sucking the flesh into his hot mouth.

Jesus, but Jim was  _melting_  and  _leaking_ , and Spock clearly knew, accompanying the soft sucking with the return of the probing finger, and the occasional nip to his inner thigh. He never so much as touched Jim’s cock, seemingly content to let him make a mess of himself against his stomach and thighs, and the sensation of dark hair tickling the sensitive skin made him moan. He imagined Spock’s head bobbing, that curtain of hair covering him, and he imagined being rolled onto his stomach, ass in the air and heat at his back and silky hair over his face. He imagined, and Spock’s movements became more rapid to accommodate the thoughts; more rapid, and more rhythmic.

When Jim came, he clenched hard around Spock’s finger and flexed against his tongue, and the spurt of ejaculate arched into the air like an obscene piece of art. Spock traced the leavings with his finger, and—curiously—gathered it into his palm.

“I did not bring lubricant,” he explained gently, and Jim nodded. When Spock asked silently if he could once again touch the depths of Jim’s body, he was given permission, permission forever…or just one night.

The additional presence of sticky fluid made the return of Spock’s fingers—two, now—slightly easier, and it was when Spock removed his own pants that Jim understood the concern. His cock, while green and of fairly normal size, did not so much as glisten with a drop of pre-cum or a speck of sweat, and Spock, seeing his gaze, explained, each word punctuated with a twist of his fingers.

“It would be impractical to waste fluids,” he intoned, “especially when Vulcans do not produce pre-seminal fluid, as humans do.”

Yeah, Jim didn’t hear a word, and judging by Spock’s soft, surprising chuckle, he knew that. Instead of attempting to explain it again, however, Spock just licked a stripe across the sweat that gathered in the crook of his thighs, and rolled his balls gently with his tongue.

“Do you wish me to pleasure you with my mouth?” Spock asked, and Jim didn’t have to open his eyes to know that he was rock-hard for the second time, his response unavoidable when faced with a tall, slim Vulcan on his knees.

“No,” Jim responded, surprising himself. “I want you in me. Now. Oh, God, now.”

Spock obliged, shifting just enough to push Jim’s legs and ass backwards and slide inside the warm, loosened hole his ministrations had provided. Jim moaned—it had been a long time, too long, and even previous experience did not prepare him for the heat of Spock buried deep inside him, or the even, deep thrusts that followed.

Jim didn’t want to be able to walk the next morning, or stand, or sit, and Spock’s furious motions seemed to be everything he needed…everything except the connection.

“Spock,” Jim whispered, and he opened his eyes to see Spock watching him, breathing deeply. Something was missing, and then a hand touched his face, and Jim knew.

“Jim,” Spock asked quietly, “do you trust me?”

He did, more than anything. And with Spock so close, there was no room for denial.

“Yes, Spock. Yes.”

Spock rewarded him with a particularly hard thrust and fingers pressed against his face in a configuration Jim didn’t understand. Spock kissed his lips, bending his body almost painfully.

“Trust me, Jim.”

Jim closed his eyes and trusted him, and his mind opened in a way he couldn’t explain. Opened, and was welcomed.

He was home.

********

Waking up in the morning pressed against a lightly snoring Vulcan was something Jim thought he could get used to, even taking into consideration the heat and the fact that he woke up sweating hours before he normally would have gotten up. For a moment, he treasured the connection, the feel of impossibly soft skin and crisp hair pressed against him, the way Spock’s hair had a rat’s nest in it on one side, the way his mouth was slightly open…Jim didn’t think there was anything better to wake up to, and he considered kissing the daylights out of him, morning breath and all.

Reality, as it always did, intruded, and Jim remembered. Spock wasn’t  _his_. They shouldn’t have done anything last night—okay, maybe that was a lie—but this morning wasn’t even a gray area. The Vulcans had said that the weddings would take place as soon as three months were up, and the dawn of that morning was that day, right on the dot; Jim rather thought the Vulcans were going to keep to a schedule on this, and so it was reluctantly—very reluctantly—that Jim disentangled himself from his sleeping partner.

Spock slept on, and Jim didn’t blame him; five in the morning was too early for any man, even if they hadn’t spent the previous night seeing just how comparable humans were to Vulcans when it came to stamina. The memories warmed him greatly as he dressed, and Jim knew, whatever else, that they would be good ones for a long time, maybe even enough to make the future bearable.

Still, because he couldn’t resist, Jim kissed Spock’s forehead before he left, the touch gentle and affectionate. Spock stirred, but quickly fell back asleep.

_Sleep well, my friend. Hopefully when you wake up, everything will be okay again._

Well, not everything. But if there was one thing Jim knew, it was that he could give Spock this: the source of that poison.

 _Call it a wedding present_.

The thought made Jim laugh, the sound only a little bitter, and he crept quietly out the door. If Bones had been here, he would have had a partner in crime…as it was, he acknowledged the risks, and did it anyway.

After all, Jim was nothing if not nosy, and he had suspected a bigger player long before Spock had brought it up. He also knew that anything that was imported—like, say, poisonous plants from Earth—had to be recorded, and that meant leaving a trail with a very specific person; for the past forty years or so, that person was Healer Silen. He would have records of everything, and it would lead them right to the person responsible. It was cake, in Jim’s eyes—hell, the hardest part was finding Healer Silen’s office, and it was all downhill from there.

It was with this thought in mind that Jim knocked on the door to the quietly secluded office, even waited patiently for the calm “come in.” when he entered, he was not surprised to see stacks of neatly labeled papers and records, and the thought came again:  _piece of cake._

“Captain,” Silen greeted, looking up from the ledger he held in his lap. “How may I help you?”

Jim sat in the nearest available chair, and watched Silen watch him.

“I need a favor. You keep records of everything that’s imported, right?”

Silen folded his hands neatly over his ledger, and blinked slowly at Jim.

“Correct.”

“Well, do you have a record of plants that have been imported from Earth lately? Like, in the past few months to a year?”

“Of course.” The ledger was opened immediately, and Silen’s finger tapped the brown pages in demonstration. “May I inquire as to whether you are looking for any specific plant?”

“Yes. This plant is poisonous, and it would be something like an azalea.”

Silen frowned minutely, his finger skimming the columns for several minutes in silence. Jim waited, all but fidgeting.

“I am not familiar with that plant,” Silen finally said, and he looked up at Jim again, as if for confirmation. Jim tried to describe something he’d only seen once.

“It’s…small? Green? Flowered? You know, it might also be imported as honey.”

Silen nodded very slowly, and closed the ledger carefully before standing.

“I see. I do not appear to have these records available within reach; if you will excuse me, I will retrieve them.”

“Sure, no hurry.”

Jim smiled glibly as Silen moved to one of the back rooms of his large web of offices, kicking his feet as he waited. The silence started to get to him in under a minute, and—curious—he stood to move around the room, stretching as he examined the various old volumes with interest. There was a storage room to one side that Jim thought looked very promising, and it occurred to him—perhaps too late—that Spock surely would have checked this out himself. Besides, smuggling existed; there may have been no record of it at all.

Jim sighed, almost considering the entire venture a lost cause when he realized that perhaps Silen just didn’t recognize the name. After all, it wasn’t something that could be spelled in Vulcan; with that in mind, Jim picked up the ledger, flipping through the most recent pages, examining every word that was not in neat Vulcan lettering. Some of them he recognized, of course—after all, he had ordered a ton of vegetable recently—but some he did not. And then one caught his eye:  _dried_   _rhododendron pentanthera_. And Jim might not have been great at recognizing biologically scientific names, but he remembered Bones saying something about azalea’s genus being rhododendron.

The shipment had been approved by Healer Silen. Improved, inspected, and collected.

There was a soft footstep nearby, and Jim looked up, right into the end of a phaser pressed against his forehead.

 “You are very smart, Captain, for a human.” The statement was soft, and Jim’s voice was equally soft when he responded.                                                                                                       

“Thanks.” He eyed the phaser, noticing that it was on the maximum setting. “Are you going to shoot me?”

Silen shook his head and backed up two steps, until he was safely out of reach of anything Jim might try, but still well within deadly range.

“Captain, I would gain nothing from that action. I request only that you stand and back up slowly. Yes, like that—now, take three steps to your right.”

Jim did so, seeing no other option. He moved as Silen instructed, realizing that he aligned himself with that storage room only when he was shoved inside.

“Hey!” Jim shouted as the door closed, and Silen lowered his phaser.

“This is the contraband storage room, Captain; it is reinforced well enough to hold an adult male Vulcan, so a human should be no trouble.”

Jim banged on the door, the action bruising his hands immediately.

“Let me out, you bastard!”

Silen shook his head again and picked up a single bag nearby before flicking off the lights and enclosing them in darkness. Jim couldn’t breathe.

“Calm down, Captain; you will not die. Someone will find you eventually. Please, be calm.”

With those words, the door to the office opened and closed, Silen escaping into the early morning sun. Jim waited to see if it was a trick, if he would in fact return to eliminate the only witness to his recorded misdeeds…but he did not.

Then, Jim opened his mouth and shouted himself hoarse.

********

The lights were glaring, and Jim opened his eyes to see a concerned Spock staring at him and his bed of contraband.

“Spock?” Spock nodded, and Jim blinked slowly. A quick glance at the sunlight filtering into the main office revealed that it couldn’t have been much past noon, and Jim was surprised. Surprised, and a little sheepish. “How did you find me so quickly?”

Spock crouched down next to him, and Jim wanted to touch his neat braid, his slim eyebrows, his elegant body. Wanted to, but stopped himself. Better to wean himself off now, he figured.

“Captain, your mind is very clear to me. I of course discerned your intentions, and I would have been here sooner had Healer Silen not stolen a shuttlecraft. We were unaware if you were on board.”

Jim nodded, understanding that. He didn’t understand why Silen hadn’t tried exactly that, except kidnapping a Starfleet official would have put him in even deeper trouble.

“Nah, he just locked me in here. You catch him?”

Spock shook his head, and Jim frowned at how solemn his expression seemed.

“Unfortunately, the shuttle was destroyed in the encounter. We were unable to beam him over in time.”

“Well, shit. You do know he was the one responsible, right?”

Spock nodded again.

“Yes. We found the remaining substance in his quarters, and it is now being listed as a dangerous toxin, and illegal to import.”

“Good. That’s…good.” Spock waited; for what, Jim was uncertain, but a familiar ache in his awkwardly folded knees distracted him. “Spock? Help me up.”

Spock offered his hand, and Jim grabbed his wrist. The tug to standing was easy, but Jim was dizzy, and he took the opportunity to lean heavily on Spock. One last time, he promised himself.

“Jim?”

Jim rolled his head to look up at Spock.

“Yeah, Spock?”

Spock rested his palms on Jim’s back, and Jim was a little distracted by how nice it felt, and how odd that Spock was being so touchy in—yes, in public. A dozen other Vulcans were nearby, organizing and sorting through Silen’s records, and seemingly ignoring them completely. Still.

“I do not believe Silen intended to kill me.”

Jim snorted, unable to stop himself, and then he wiped the evidence off Spock’s shirt.

“No? Sure seemed that way.”

“He has not been in charge long enough to have been responsible for my father’s death, or my brother’s. It is far more likely that, like T’Asis, he was recruited for the task. Unlike her, however, he did not follow through.”

Jim stared up at Spock like he was a lunatic, and like he was missing the big picture. He was close enough to kiss, and so Jim closed his eyes and looked away.

“He  _poisoned_  you, Spock.”

“Yes. But according to T’Asis, he stopped providing her with instructions for the substance a week ago, despite my continued existence. She simply assumed its purpose beyond that.”

Jim frowned, and rested his hand over the heartbeat in Spock’s side.

“He have a flash of conscience?” It didn’t matter, Jim decided; he had tried, however briefly, to make that beautiful heart stop.

“More likely a memory. He was my father’s oldest friend.”

The somber attitude of the conversation suddenly made sense, and Jim winced.

“Ouch. I’m sorry, Spock.”

“It is no matter.” Jim wondered if it was that easy, if Spock just forgave and forgot like that, or if he had as difficult a time letting go of grudges as he seemed to have with letting go of Jim. “Jim?”

“Yeah?”

“The arranged marriages have been cancelled.”

Jim jerked back, alarm in every line of his body.

“What? Why? Oh hell, not  _war_?”

Spock shook his head lightly, and ran his hands up and down Jim’s arms. Jim was  _not_  distracted.

“No. However, in light of our exceptional mental compatibility, Semek decided to reexamine his chosen pairings.”

“…what?” Jim couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t, but wanted to so badly that he stared up at Spock, looking for lies in his eyes.

“Jim.” He blinked, and saw only Spock’s face. “We will be allowed to marry…if you are willing.”                  

It wasn’t even a question.

“Spock?” Spock inclined his head, and Jim grinned, twining their hands together. “Marry me?”

Spock almost smiled, and he leaned in for a kiss that Jim met gladly.

“Of course, Jim. Of course.”

They forgot about the rest of the world for that day, and Jim couldn’t say he regretted it.


	13. Epilogue

The ship was as beautiful as Jim had never imagined, large and streamlined with a thousand times the power of his old ship and a hundred times the glamour, a dozen times the size. Each inch of it gleamed impressively in the space dock that held it, every piece perfectly in place and even the paint untarnished. Yes, it was a beautiful ship...and all in all, it made the news bulletin seem rather impressive.

“We’re here at the Terran Space Dock, where the first of a dozen new ships is being launched, the honored Captain Robert Wesley in the center seat!” The cheerful newscaster reported, beaming as Wesley waved at the hovering camera. Jim, amused, waved back, because he had never seen Wesley look so happy—the kid must have been good for him, although he wouldn’t have expected the result himself.

Well, no one had expected him and Spock either.

“Jim, what are you doing?”

Jim looked away from the vid screen, meeting Spock’s stare from where he stood five paces away and leering on principle. It had been a fantastic year…and Spock wore blue every day now, happily foisting all of his other colors on Jim when it became apparent that, hey, Jim looked  _awesome_  in  _everything_.

Amusement suffused his body, almost overwhelming in its warmth.

“That is not entirely true, Jim. If you recall, there was something of a debate over the wisdom of wearing red.”

Jim scowled at the memory, but there was no negative emotion associated with it, and Spock knew.

Mind links were  _freakin’ sweet_.

“Hey, that razor beast attacked  _me_ , not my robe.”

“And the rabid sehlat the next time you wore it?” Spock reminded him, because he was a jerk.

“Coincidence. Really.”

Spock nodded solemnly, and Jim didn’t miss the way he straightened his clothes, drawing attention to the very  _not_  red shade. It was endearing, really.

“Indeed. Now, may we proceed?” Spock gestured ahead of him, and Jim blanched, remembering why they were here, now, and he looked back at the vid screen with longing.

“Jim,” Spock intoned, voice chastising, and Jim held up both hands.

“Fine, fine, I’m going. Don’t know why you want to do this to me, though—abandoning me in there, with those _wolves_.”  _For the first time ever_ , Jim wanted to add, but he’d said it before and received zero sympathy.

Spock didn’t even look exasperated.

“It is only the High Council, Jim, and you are a member. You have been for many months, and many meetings.” Jim pouted, and Spock added quietly, “This was our deal, after all. I agreed to take this licensing exam of yours, and you agreed that you would manage without me for one meeting.”

Jim nodded—he remembered that agreement, of course, but he also remembered being a little distracted when he’d let Spock talk him into it. The words “God, yes, Spock, anything you want!” might also have been involved. Even so…

“Spock, they’re talking about going to  _war_.” Contrary to the Vulcan-Human skirmishes of the past year, the adversary was  _not_  Earth, he was pleased to note, but it  _was_  Klingons. Klingons, specifically, who had been practicing traditional warfare techniques for dozens of years: divide and conquer.

This normally wouldn’t have meant much—between the Vulcan-Human alliance and the Romulan-Andorian alliance, they were outnumbered and outgunned—but the funny thing about gathering intelligence was that secrets became exposed. The secret worth mentioning in this case was that they had kept Vulcans and Humans apart for years and years…by successfully killing off every Human sympathizer they could find, or Vulcan sympathizer. Spock’s entire family had fallen victim to a “disease,” but it was more than that: Vommeck’s parents had been in an accident, Tolen’s shot in crossfire, and Tolkar…Tolkar had nearly died, much to the surprisingly present distress of his match.

Jim hadn’t thought Finnegan cared about anybody, but apparently, he’d been wrong. Not that Jim blamed him—he had his own fears, and although he desperately wanted Spock to take the officer’s exam and follow him into space, he was petrified of what might happen, what sort of battle a war with Klingons would bring. It was a new feeling, and he knew it was bleeding across their link when Spock pressed a hand gently to his spine.

“Jim, you do not want war. They do not want war. You will be fine.”

Jim didn’t know if he was right, but he knew Spock believed it. Stubborn Vulcans.

“Can’t you just take the exam next year? Kyle and Tolen can have the next ship. Or Dalton and Vommeck!” Both couples, Jim thought it bore mentioning, that had prepared for this long ago. Both couples who had also—incidentally—been “dating” in much the same way he and Spock had at first. Except, you know, with sex (at least in Vommeck’s case—“practical research,” he’d said when Jim’s curiosity prompted him to ask, much to Spock’s chagrin and jealousy. _Scientists_.)

Spock just kissed him on the forehead, and ran fingers through his shaggy hair.

“You will be fine, Jim. I believe it.”

Jim squeezed his hand and felt the comforting touch of someone who believed in him absolutely. Doubt didn’t have a chance.

“Yeah, Spock. And good luck.”

“You as well, Jim. I will see you this evening.”

They parted reluctantly, but Jim didn’t watch him go. Even after all these months, it was difficult to keep his eyes off him, but if there was only one thing Jim had learned, it was that politics required a level of concentration he rarely gave anything.

With only one last sigh, Jim straightened his robe, and walked over to the huge double doors leading to the council.

********

It was late evening by the time Jim returned, and Spock was already sitting in  _their_  room, wrapped in familiar pajamas and his hair loose. Seeing those same pajamas from the first night they’d met made Jim feel almost nostalgic, but exhaustion caught up before he could say so much as a “hello.” He flopped on the big bed they’d shared almost every night, and Jim thought he’d never known such bliss.

Of course, Spock  _had_  to ruin it.

“Surely you are exaggerating.”

Jim groaned dramatically and covered his face.

“I don’t know, Spock. Vulcans are so  _suspicious_ —I don’t think I’ve ever dealt with a bigger bunch of fully-grown ten year olds in my  _life_. I said allying with the Tellarites was a good idea—most of them agreed with me, too—but there are some stubborn ones, that’s for sure. I just don’t know.”

A warm hand rested on the back of his neck, and although the action was covered by a massage, Jim knew Spock was reading him through both their link and the touch.

“You did well, Jim.”

Jim rolled just enough to see Spock looking at him fondly, and his heart thumped, heavily.

“And you? How’d you do?”

Spock sighed, and smoothed the fabric of Jim’s robe. Jim happily shrugged out of it in response, and when Spock didn’t appear to notice, he shed his shoes, pants, and shirt too.

“I may have misinterpreted the proper test to use for their theoretical organism. I also may not have been as accurate as they would have liked.”

There was a small frown line forming in the center of Spock’s forehead, and Jim smiled. It was  _adorable_.

“Accurate meaning…?”

“Greater than a dozen decimal places—I experienced uncertainty on the final number.”

Jim chuckled, and already, he felt lighter. Spock looked at him, and there was open surprise on his face at the fact that Jim had gotten naked when he was distracted, but he didn’t seem to mind. Obviously.

“Considering this is a test generally meant for humans and not  _Vulcans_ , I’m sure you did fine, Spock,” Jim said lightly, patting him on the leg and enjoying the feel of skin-warmed cloth.

“Indeed.” Spock watched him for a moment. “Of course, you do realize that if I join you on your ship, you will be my captain.”

Jim nodded, and he would have said, “yes, that’s the point,” but Spock’s hand came to rest on his hip before he could utter a word.

“And…” Spock began, the word lingering as he began a smooth circular touch, and Jim shivered as he felt long, warm fingers smooth across his inner thighs. “If you become the captain of your vessel and I become one of your junior officers, this could be construed as sexual harassment.” The  _this_  in question was a probing finger sliding slowly under the band of his underwear, and then wriggling shortly before being removed. Jim hummed. “Also, this.” Spock darted forward, and a slick tongue licked a stripe across the center of his chest. Jim moaned. “As well as this.” A lean body slid up to cover his, full clothing against his naked skin.

“Who’s harassing who, here?” Jim asked, dazed, and Spock kissed the hollow of his neck before sliding to the side, and away.

“That, Captain, is a matter for the legal department to decide.”

Spock stood, and Jim grunted unhappily.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

Spock responded by very calmly shucking his own clothes, and then folding them neatly. Jim watched the ripple of his smooth back, and if he’d been exhausted before, he couldn’t tell it by the sudden interest Little Jim had in the proceedings.

Spock looked at him from where he stood naked across the room.

“However, if you are tired…” He reached for his robe suggestively, and Jim snorted.

“ _Bull_.” Then he held out his arms.

Spock didn’t say anything and he didn’t need to, because the next instant, a naked Vulcan was sliding in bed next to Jim. The idea that Jim had once had—that he would be in hell without his ship, that he would be miserable when not in space, that politics would somehow kill him—suddenly crossed his mind, and Jim laughed, the sound swallowed by a roaming Vulcan mouth.

_Hell…if this is hell, chain me to the wall!_

Spock chuckled at the thought and Jim did too, the sound happy, and free, and welcoming.

Jim was finally where he belonged. And whatever else came, that was enough.

********

_End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Kirk has to marry Spock. It’s a way to unite Earth and (Pre-Reform in modern day) Vulcan. Nero still appeared, and Jim managed to save Vulcan somehow (maybe Vulcans and humans are experiencing a cold war or something, so that’s why Kirk was in space when Nero’s heads to Vulcan.) The leading family on Vulcan has no daughters, so Kirk has to marry a man.
> 
> He isn’t thrilled with the idea, but eventually he’s convinced to go through with it. His marriage will bring peace to humans and the Vulcans. He is allowed to bring one companion with him for company, and he chooses Bones (maybe Bones brings his daughter, or perhaps the Vulcan’s helping him get custody of her could be a side story). Happy ending, or at least hopeful, for Spock and Kirk is must.


End file.
